THE   COURTSHIP   OF 
MILES  STANDISH 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 

BY 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


WITH  AN   INTRODUCTION 

BY 

RICHARD    BURTON 


NEW   YORK 

THOMAS   Y.    CROWELL  &  CO. 

PUBLISHERS 


CO 

\eoO 


GIFT  OF 


Copyright,  1900, 
By  THOMAS  Y.   CROWELL  &  CO. 


o&- 


CONTENTS. 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES   STANDISH. 

PAGE 

I.    Miles  Standish 3 

II.  Love  and  Friendship         .        .        .        .12 

III.  The  Lover's  Errand 23 

IV.  John  Alden 39 

V.  The  Sailing  of  the  May  Flower    .        .      54 

VI.  Priscilla 69 

VII.  The  March  of  Miles  Standish        .        .  So 

VIII.  The  Spinning-Wheel 91 

IX.  The  Wedding-Day 102 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE. 


Prometheus,  or  the  Poet's  Forethol 
The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine     . 
The  Phantom  Ship 
The  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports 
Haunted  Houses    .... 
In  the  Churchyard  at  Cambridge 
The  Emperor's  Bird's-Nest  . 
iii 


"5 
119 
122 
126 
130 
133 
J35 


M103146 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


The  Two  Angels    .... 
Daylight  and  Moonlight     . 
The  Jewish  Cemetery  at  Newport 
Oliver  Basselin      .... 
Victor  Galbraith  .... 
My  Lost  Youth      .        .        . 
The  Ropewalk       .... 
The  Golden  Mile-Stone 
Catawba  Wine        .... 
Santa  Filomena     .... 
The  Discoverer  of  the  North  Cape 

Daybreak 

The  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz 

Children 

Sandalphon     

Epimetheus,  or  the  Poet's  Afterthought 


139 

143 

!5o 

155 

158 
164 
168 
172 
176 
179 
186 
188 
191 
194 


Notes 


203 


INTRODUCTION. 

One  thinks  of  Longfellow,  perhaps,  first  of  all,  as 
the  maker  of  many  a  tender  song,  many  a  lyric  of 
music  and  imagination,  many  a  stirring  ballad  of 
by-gone  days  and  deeds.  Then  a  few  more  ambi- 
tious works  come  to  mind  :  Evangeline,  a  narrative 
poem  of  native  subject,  told  in  a  metre  which  at  the 
time  had  all  the  merit  of  bold  innovation  ;  Hiawatha, 
another  spirited  and  successful  venture  into  the  native 
field,  and  using  a  rhythmic  vehicle  at  once  fresh  and 
happy:  the  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,  linking  together 
in  a  song-sequence  narratives  of  old  times  and  new ; 
The  Spanish  Student,  dewy  with  a  young  poet-schol- 
ar's sense  of  the  romantic  tragedy  inherent  in  that 
fateful  land. 

But  as  one  meditates  upon  the  full  exercise  of  his 
poetic  gift,  one  is  likely  to  feel  that  this  beloved 
singers  just  claim  upon  the  affectionate  memory  of 
after  time  is  due  to  his  felicitous  handling  of  subjects, 
humorous  or  tragic,  which  get  their  rootage  in  Ameri- 
can soil.  Despite  much  culture  and  a  cosmopolitan 
range  of  themes,  Longfellow  stands  forth  as  a  repre- 
sentative poet  of  our  earlier  period,  because  he  drew 
the  inspiration  for  his  best  work  from  motives  lying 
ready  to  hand  in  his  own  country,  Neither  Whittier 
nor  Holmes,  neither  Emerson  nor  Lowell,  are  more 


vi  INTR  on  UC  TION. 

American  in  this  sense ;  a  poet  like  Poe  is  seen  to  be 
hardly  American  at  all.  It  is  true  that  art  is  some- 
thing vastly  larger  than  nationality ;  and  it  is,  there- 
fore, foolish  to  invoke  a  self-conscious  attempt  on  the 
writer's  part  to  reflect  his  environment  in  his  literary 
production.  The  expression  of  country  and  locality 
in  literature  should  be  instinctive  and  not  come  of 
observation.  But  it  is  also  true  —  and  the  truth  may 
be  emphasized  —  that  the  people  will  only  ratify  as 
their  exponent  in  song  the  man  whom  they  recognize 
as  thus  interpreting  their  personal  and  collective  life. 
This  service  Longfellow,  linguist,  translator,  traveller, 
and  professor  as  he  was,  has  performed,  and  hence  it 
is  that  he  has  always  been  —  it  is  hardly  too  much  to 
say  —  our  most  widely  cherished  bard.  The  present- 
day  critic  who  dismisses  him  carelessly  as  pleasing 
rather  than  great,  must  reckon  with  this  not  unimpor- 
tant fact  in  any  attempt  at  a  proper  valuation.  So, 
too,  all  estimates  which  bear  down  on  Longfellow  as 
the  product  of  scholarship,  travel,  and  world-culture, 
unfairly  minimize  the  more  popular  aspect  of  his 
accomplishment. 

The  delightful  narrative  poem  of  The  Courtship 
of  Miles  Standish  is  one  of  these  typical  creations  we 
have  in  mind.  It  is  a  rendering  playful,  yet  tender, 
realistic  in  setting,  yet  touched  with  romance,  of  a 
story  from  our  early  colonial  history,  in  which  charac- 
ters who  are  in  danger  of  being  names  and  nothing 
more  in  the  hands  of  the  formal  chronicler  are 
brought  near  to  us  and  made  warm  and  sympathetic 
by  means  of  imaginative  presentation.     This,  by  the 


INTRODUCTION.  vii 

bye,  is  one  of  the  steady  offices  of  literature  in  the 
interest  of  history.  Longfellow,  moreover,  in  turn- 
ing to  such  a  theme,  set  an  example  in  the  use  of 
older  material  for  literary  purposes.  We  are  nowadays 
witnessing  a  remarkable  turning  on  the  part  of  novel- 
ists—  fiction  at  present  being  the  dominant  literary 
form  —  to  historic  incidents  and  motives,  to  furnish 
the  stuff  for  historic  romances.  The  impulse  is  a 
healthy  reaction  from  a  too  ardent  devotion  to  the 
novel  of  contemporary  life,  realistically  limned ;  and 
it  is  producing  fiction,  to  name  current  examples,  like 
Dr.  Mitchell's  Hugh  Wynne,  Mr.  Stimson's  King 
JVbauett,  Mr.  Churchill's  Richard  Carvel,  Mr.  Ford's 
Janice  Meredith,  and  Miss  Johnston's  To  Have  and 
to  Hold.  Although  poetry  rather  than  fiction  was 
the  form  of  his  election,  Longfellow,  half  a  century 
ago,  showed  himself  sympathetic  to  this  welcome 
influence,  whereby  our  literature  becomes  the  more 
homogeneous  and  distinctive.  He  might  be  called 
an  early  realist  in  letters  as  to  his  themes  and  his 
method  of  dealing  with  them.  This  in  the  days 
before  the  word  "  realism "  was  bandied  about  in 
literary  parlance  as  now  it  is.  Turning  back  to  the 
bleak  annals  of  the  Puritan  Colony  at  Plymouth  in 
the  early  seventeenth  century,  he  illuminates  the  past, 
gray  with  time-mists,  by  a  homely  tale  of  human  joy 
and  sorrow,  and  warms  it  with  a  genial  humor  which 
relieves  what  might  otherwise  lean  toward  the  pro- 
saic or  tragic.  The  days  of  Captain  Miles  Standish 
of  sometime  memory  were  days  strenuous  and 
gloomed  —  as  you  may  learn  from  the  pages  of  Justin 


Vlll  INTR  OD  UCTION. 

VVinsor.  But  in  Longfellow's  hands,  the  story  of 
the  little,  mighty  soldier,  of  his  scholar-friend,  the 
yellow-haired,  azure-eyed  Alden,  and  of  the  fair,  simple 
maiden,  Priscilla,  is  softened  and  sweetened  by  a  poet's 
art  until  kindly  smiles,  a  dash  of  tears,  and  a  tender 
pleasantness  are  evoked  by  the  poem's  very  name. 

The  poem  called  forth  the  typical  powers  of  the 
author:  here  is  seen  to  full  advantage  his  gift  for 
narrative  verse,  full  of  clear-cut  pictures  and  carried 
upon  a  rhythmic  flow  that  is  admirably  adapted  to 
the  end  in  view ;  and,  above  all,  his  grasp  upon,  his 
feeling  for,  the  permanent  elements  of  life  in  such  a 
scene.  The  poem  plays  between  love  and  war,  those 
two  lasting  motives,  and  is  thus  based  firm  upon  abid- 
ing interests.  Few  works  of  Longfellow  —  or  of  any 
other  American  singer — offer  themselves  so  sugges- 
tively to  the  artist  with  the  brush  ;  when  the  Court- 
ship had  been  published  scarcely  a  month,  we  find 
the  poet's  diary  entry  under  the  date  November  28, 
1858  :  "  Ehringer  has  sent  me  a  beautiful  illustration 
of  Miles  Standish.  It  is  the  bridal  procession  going 
through  the  woods,  and  is  full  of  feeling."  This  was 
the  first  of  sketches  and  pictures  not  a  few  which 
have  embellished  the  favorite  song-story. 

We  find  by  referring  to  Longfellow's  Journal 
that  he  started  the  Standish  poem  —  which,  for  the 
heroine's  name,  he  first  called  Priscilla  —  Place  aux 
dames  I  —  on  December  20,  1857,  the  day  being  "soft 
as  spring."  "  I  begin  a  new  poem,"  he  says,  "  i  Pris- 
cilla ' ;  to  be  a  kind  of  Puritan  pastoral ;  the  subject 
'The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish.1     This,  I  think, 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  IX 

will  be  a  better  treatment  of  the  subject   than   the 
dramatic  one  I  wrote  some  time  ago.11     The  reference 
is  a  commentary  on  Longfellow's  nice  criticism  of  his 
own  limitations  ;  aware  that  the  narrative  rather  than 
the  dramatic  was  his  forte,  he  passed  from  an  experi- 
ment in  the  less  congenial  form  to  most  acceptable 
accomplishment   in    that   which    was    natural    to   his 
genius.     The   next   day  he  adds:    "My  poem   is   in 
hexameters,  an  idyl  of  the  old  Colony  times.11     In  a 
letter  to  Charles   Sumner  he   happily  describes  it  as 
"  a  bunch  of  Mayflowers  from  the  Plymouth  woods.11 
Further :    "  What  it  will  turn  out  —  I   do  not  know, 
but  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  write  it ;  and  that  I  count 
for  something.11     From  various  other  entries  we  follow 
the  "  idyl "  in  the  workshop  until   its  completion  on 
the  22d  of  March,  when  revision  is  undertaken.     A 
month  later  it  is  in  process  of  printing,  and  its  maker 
is  "  seeing  all  its  defects  as  it  stands  before  me  in 
type.     It  is  always  disagreeable  when  the  glow   of 
composition  is  over  to  criticise  what   one    has  been 
in  love  with.     We  think  it  is  Rachel  but  wake  to  find 
it  Leah,11  —the  usual  mood  after  creation.     In  an- 
other letter  to  Sumner,  dated   July  10,  he  declares 
the  poem  to  be  founded  "  on  the  well-known  adven- 
ture of  my  maternal  ancestor,  John  Alden/1  an  inter- 
esting fact  in  explaining  the  poet's  choice  of  theme, 
and  possibly  supplying  a  reason  for  special  sympathy 
with  the  modest  scholar-wooer,  whose  gentle  timidity 
is  such  a  foil  to  the  robustious  Miles  in  the  opening 
scene,  that  one  is  half  inclined  to  side  for  the  nonce 
with  the  soldier. 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish  was  duly  pub- 
lished by  Ticknor  and  Fields  of  Boston,  whose  pre- 
scriptive rights  to  our  standard  elder  American  writers 
have  been  inherited  by  the  present  house  of  Houghton, 
Mifflin  and  Company.  There  was  no  question  about 
its  success.  Again  the  Journal  helps  us  out :  under 
date  of  October  16  we  read  :  "  The  Courtship  of  Miles 
Standish  published.  At  noon  Ticknor  told  me  he 
had  sold  five  thousand  in  Boston,  besides  the  orders 
from  a  distance.  He  had  printed  ten  thousand,  and 
has  another  ten  thousand  in  press.1'  On  the  23d  he 
says  :  "  Between  these  two  Saturdays  Miles  Standish 
has  marched  steadily  on.  Another  five  thousand  are 
in  press;  in  all,  an  army  of  twenty-five  thousand  — 
in  one  week.  Fields  tells  me  that  in  London  ten 
thousand  were  sold  the  first  day.1'  And  a  pleasant 
sequela  is  noted  on  November  6,  when  he  gives  a 
dinner  ''to  Ticknor  and  Fields,  the  publishers,  in 
honor  of  the  success  of  Miles  Standish;  the  other 
guests,  T.  Starr  King  and  Whipple."  This  imme- 
diate popularity  was  not  to  be  a  temporary  thing ;  the 
poem  has  always  been  a  favorite  with  the  general; 
its  brisk  handling  of  native  material,  its  wholesome 
fun  and  vigor,  and  its  picturesqueness  of  color  and 
charm  of  music  have  served  to  make  the  composition 
even  unto  our  own  day  one  of  the  stock  pieces  upon 
which  properly  reared  American  school  children  are 
exercised:  lines  and  passages  in  it  are  among  the 
English-speaking  world's  most  familiar  possessions. 

Longfellow  was  turned  of  fifty  when  the  poem  was 
written  ;  it  is  work  of  his  ripe  maturity.    For  a  poet  to 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  XI 

produce  one  of  his  characteristic  and  best-liked  things 
at  this  time  of  life  is  by  no  means  unprecedented, 
but  may  be  fairly  called  somewhat  unusual.  The 
exceptions  are  most  often  in  the  line  of  epic  produc- 
tions :  Dante  was  presumably  in  the  fifties  when  the 
Divine  Comedy  took  lasting  shape;  Milton  a  man 
close  on  to  sixty  when  Paradise  Lost  appeared.  I 
may  add  that  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  the  Homeric 
poems  were  the  outcome  of  a  young  bard's  view  of 
life.  The  poetry  of  passion,  to  be  sure,  has  been 
made  prevailingly  in  the  heyday  of  the  blood.  But 
Longfellow  was  never  the  poet  of  passion  in  the 
Byronic  sense  ;  neither  was  he  ever  the  poet  of  revolt, — 
but  rather  the  singer  of  the  calm,  deep  love  that  cen- 
tres in  the  home  hearth  ;  and  of  the  natural  feelings 
and  interests  of  normal  humanity, — a  field  less  strik- 
ingly rugged  and  bold,  but  fully  as  fruitful  in  the 
growths  it  gives  the  world.  Not  only  was  he  in  the 
trained  exercise  of  his  powers  ;  he  had  also  reached 
an  assured  place  of  easy  fortune  and  wide  reputation. 
Some  three  or  four  years  before  he  had  felt  able  to 
resign  his  Harvard  chair  in  favor  of  Lowell,  in  order 
to  devote  his  full  strength  and  time  to  letters.  And 
the  life  at  Craigie  House  now  and  hereafter  was 
ample  in  style  and  beautiful  with  unrestricted  social 
graces.  Only  three  years  later  (in  1861),  with  the 
war  cloud  on  the  land,  was  to  come  the  tragic  taking- 
offof  his  beloved  wife,  —  an  affliction  which  tempered 
his  subsequent  work  into  a  graver  sweetness,  although, 
because  of  the  essential  soundness  of  his  nature,  it 
did  not  embitter  nor  harshen  his  song. 


Xll  INTRODUCTION. 

Longfellow  was  then,  in  all  ways,  at  the  right  age 
for  epic  writing — or  for  that  modern  branch  of  the 
epic  commonly  called  narrative  verse.  The  Coui't- 
sliip  of  Miles  Standish  might  be  termed,  for  the  story 
interest,  picturesqueness,  unity  of  design,  and  sustained 
power  of  poetic  expression,  a  little  epic.  The  metre 
he  adopted  for  the  poem  was  likewise  well  suited  to 
this  kind  of  work.  Ten  years  or  more  before  (in 
1847)  nari  appeared  one  of  his  masterpieces,  the 
Acadian  idyl  of  Evangeline.  At  that  time  the  Eng- 
lish hexameter  was  practically  unknown  in  American 
poetry,  as  indeed  it  was  in  English  verse  as  a  whole. 
Of  the  several  attempts  made  at  about  this  time  to 
domesticate  in  our  accentual  tongue  the  sweeping 
Homeric  measure,  none  confessedly  is  so  successful 
as  that  of  the  Cambridge  poet,  who,  with  no  foolish 
effort  to  make  a  slavish  imitation  of  the  classic,  admi- 
rably catches  the  swing  and  sound  of  that  movement 
in  which,  from  its  old-time  maker's  hands,  one  hears 

"  Like  ocean  on  a  Western  beach, 
The  surge  and  thunder  of  the  Odyssey." 

The  American  singer  subdued  the  majesty  of  the  orig- 
inal somewhat,  to  fit  it  to  a  quiet  old  tale  for  whose 
remoteness  and  foreign  charm  the  hexameter  associa- 
tions were  peculiarly  adapted.  The  popularity  of  the 
poem  then  and  now  is  beyond  peradventure  due  in 
part  to  this  freshly  pleasing  metrical  use.  It  was 
natural,  then,  that,  a  decade  later,  Longfellow  should 
return  to  the  hexameter  when  he  wished  to  tell  another 
old-time  tale,  of  less  breadth  and  romance  of  atmos- 


INTRODUCTION.  Xlll 

phere,  but  possessing  a  very  genuine  poetic  quality  of 

its  own. 

However  much  slighter  than  Evangeline  as  a  per- 
formance, The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish  displays 
the  hand  of  the  poet  in  all  its  cunning.     The  metre 
shows  the  same  plastic  adaptation  to  the  purposes  of 
narrative ;  in  the  more  glowing  descriptive  passages 
or  in  those  of  lyric  tenderness  it  moves  with  all  the 
lure  of  the  most  lovely  melody ;  while  in  the  rugged 
moments  of  the  tale  — as  where  the  doughty  Miles 
defeats  his  Indian  opponents  with  his  trusty  band  of 
ten,  or  the  good  ship  May  Flower  hoists  anchor  for 
the  return  .voyage  to-  mother   England,  — an  added 
strength  and   colloquial  terseness  impart  a  properly 
dramatic  effect.     The  poem,  too,  contains  excellent 
examples  of  Longfellow's  mastery  of  imaginative  lan- 
guage.    In  happy  consonance  with  the  setting  of  the 
story,  the  diction  has  a  quaintness  derived  from  the 
many  biblical  images  and  allusions,  —  just  the  figures 
and  fancies  which  would,  we  feel,  be  in  the  minds 
and  on  the  mouths  of  those  God-fearing,^  Scripture- 
following  Puritan  ancestors  of  ours  aforetime.     This 
is  a  marked  feature  of  the  style. 

The  selection  of  the  salient  points  of  the  tale  for 
poetic  treatment  bespeaks  the  true  artist.    The  kernel 
of  the  whole  thing,  as  Longfellow  himself  tells  us,  is 
in  Priscilla's  famous,  tremulous-coy  question,  — 
"  Why  don't  you  speak  for  yourself,  John  ?  " 

Around  this  suggestion  the  poet  develops  his  narra- 
tive.    First  the  martial  character  of  Miles  is  capitally 


X IV  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

hit  off,  with  Alden  in  sharp  contrast  to  him ;  then 
comes  the  soldier's  frank  avowal  of  his  love  and  his 
awkwardness  in  the  premises.  Unlike  Othello,  an- 
other soldier-wooer,  he  has  no  complete  confidence 
that  Priscilla  will  love  him  for  the  dangers  he  had 
passed ;  and  John,  inwardly  agonized  at  his  false 
position,  but  faithful  at  all  hazards  to  his  friend,  con- 
veys the  proposal-by-proxy,  only  to  be  shown  (though 
he  is  a  trifle  slow  to  see  it)  that  this  sweet  mistress  is 
for  quite  another  market  —  one  nearer  home.  Particu- 
larly noteworthy  is  the  skill  with  which  the  char- 
acters of  Alden  and  Standish  are  set  over  against  one 
another,  the  traits  distinctive  of  each  just  those  which 
would  naturally  make  the  two  men  antagonists  not 
only  in  love  but  in  life ;  yet  both  hold  our  sympa- 
thetic liking,  Standish  quite  as  firmly  as  Alden,  and 
their  relation,  albeit  strained  for  a  season,  is  too  close 
not  to  stand  the  test,  so  that  a  general  peace  recurs 
when  the  stalwart  Indian  fighter,  after  being  reported 
dead,  returns  to  bless  the  bridal  party.  It  is  easy  to 
forgive  the  poet,  who  preferred  to  constitute  himself 
a  God  from  the  machine,  and  not  allow  even  the 
minor  melancholy  of  the  captain's  death  to  make  a 
note  of  discord  among  the  marriage  bells.  This  is 
indicative  of  Longfellow's  method,  of  his  conception 
of  the  aim  of  poetry ;  luckily,  he  did  not  live  in  the 
day  of  the  "  inevitableness  "  of  the  sad  ending. 

The  climax  seems  to  have  been  reached  when  in 
the  third  canto  Priscilla  rejects  Miles ;  yet  but  a  third 
of  the  poem  has  been  read.  The  going  of  the  latter 
to  war,  the  sailing  of  the  May  Flower ;  Alden's  deci- 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  xv 

sion  to  stay  at  Plymouth  for  the  sake  of  guarding  his 
lady-love,  the  tidings  of  the  killing  of  his  rival,  thus 
untying  his  tongue  so  that  the  full  confession  of  his 
feeling  may  follow, — these  incidents  and  scenes  lead 
up  with  perfect  naturalness  to  the  culmination,  —  and 
to  the  simple  but  everlastingly  true  and  hence  lovely 
picture  of  these  lovers  walking,  after  the  ceremony 
that  has  made  them  one,  through  the  forest,  whose 
outward  fairness  of  stately  autumn  blazonry  is  but  a 
symbol  of  their  inward  rapture  and  peace.  It  is  a 
close  both  pure  and  beautiful,  —  and  very  typical  of 
our  maiden-hearted  American  singer  :  — 

"  Like  a  picture  it  seemed  of  the  primitive  pastoral  ages, 
Fresh  with  the  youth  of  the  world  and  recalling  Rebecca  and 

Isaac, 
Old  and  yet  ever  new  and  simple  and  beautiful  always, 
Love  immortal  and  young  in  the  endless  succession  of  lovers." 

An  interesting  comparison  might  be  instituted 
between  this  poem  and  another  masterpiece  in  little, 
Goethe's  charming  pastoral  narrative,  Hermann  and 
Dorothea.  Both  are  genialized  by  a  homely  human 
sympathy  in  the  characters  represented.  The  Ger- 
man poem,  which  was  written  half  a  century  earlier 
than  the  American,  has  the  archaic  touches  which  lend 
it  an  old-world  charm  also  felt  in  Longfellow's  shaping 
of  the  Puritan  story.  Both  too  are,  on  the  formal  side, 
written  in  flowing  hexameters ;  and  both  have  humor 
salient  against  a  grim  background  of  suffering ;  while 
in  both  the  prevailing  mood  is  a  sort  of  reminiscent 
tenderness,  an  afterglow  of  half-pensive  happiness. 
Nor  is  the  great  German  poet  more  true  to  the  village 


XVI  INTR  OD  UCTIOtf. 

life  of  his  country  in  the  days  when  the  French  were 
devastating  its  borders  and  bands  of  terror-smitten 
fugitives  fled  across  the  Rhine,  than  is  the  American 
poet  to  our  primitive  civilization  that  was  so  godly, 
stanch,  and  well  founded  on  the  abiding  principles 
of  self-government.  It  is  worth  adding,  to  complete 
the  parallel,  that,  like  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Staudish, 
Hermann  and  Dorothea  has  stimulated  many  native 
artists  to  limn  its  scenes  with  brush  and  pencil. 

A  certain  kind  of  literature  is  always  welcomed, 
and  long  held  in  affectionate  remembrance :  that 
which,  while  neither  plumbing  the  murky  depths 
nor  scaling  the  stormy  heights  of  man's  passionate 
tragi-comedy  called  Life,  yet,  with  less  of  pretension, 
gives  a  true  portrayal  of  the  representative  inter- 
ests and  emotions  of  humanity,  —  doing  this  by 
painting  genre  pictures  with  a  sure  hand,  a  realistic 
fidelity,  and  a  loving  heart.  Productions  like  Whit- 
tier's  Snowbound  and  Longfellow's  The  Courtship  of 
Miles  Standish  are  of  this  character;  and  it  is 
only  as  time  passes  and  they  are  seen  in  historical 
perspective  that  their  full  worth  and  potent  attrac- 
tion come  to  be  all  perceived. 

RICHARD  BURTON. 


THE 

COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


»»     •      9      9 


' 

THE 


COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


I. 

MILES   STANDISH. 

In  the  Old  Colony  days,  in  Plymouth  the  land 
of  the  Pilgrims, 

To  and  fro  in  a  room  of  his  simple  and  primi- 
tive dwelling, 

Clad  in  doublet  and  hose,  and  boots  of  Cordo- 
van leather, 

Strode,  with   a   martial  air,  Miles   Standish  the 
Puritan  Captain. 

Buried  in  thought  he  seemed,  with    his   hands 
behind  him,  and  pausing 

Ever  and  anon  to  behold  his  glittering  weapons 
of  warfare, 

3 


4       THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 

Hanging  in  shining  array  along  the  walls  of  the 
chamDe^^-', 

Cutlass  and  corslet  of  steel,  and  his  trusty 
sword  of  Damascus, 

Curved  at  the  point  and  inscribed  with  its  mys- 
tical Arabic  sentence, 

While  underneath,  in  a  corner,  were  fowling- 
piece,  musket,  and  matchlock. 

Short  of  stature  he  was,  but  strongly  built  and 
athletic, 

Broad  in  the  shoulders,  deep-chested,  with  mus- 
cles and  sinews  of  iron ; 

Brown  as  a  nut  was  his  face,  but  his  russet 
beard  was  already 

Flaked  with  patches  of  snow,  as  hedges  some- 
times in  November. 

Near  him  was  seated  John  Alden,  his  friend, 
and  household  companion, 

Writing  with  diligent  speed  at  a  table  of  pine 
by  the  window ; 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.      5 

Fair-haired,    azure-eyed,    with     delicate     Saxon 

complexion, 
Having  the  dew  of  his  youth,  and    the    beauty 

thereof,  as  the  captives 
Whom  Saint  Gregory  saw,  and  exclaimed,  "Not 

Angles  but  Angels." 
Youngest  of  all  was  he   of  the  men  who  came 

in  the  May  Flower. 

Suddenly   breaking   the    silence,    the    diligent 

scribe  interrupting, 
Spake,  in  the  pride  of  his  heart,  Miles  Standish 

the  Captain  of  Plymouth. 
"  Look    at  these  arms,"   he  said,  "  the  warlike 

weapons  that  hang  here 
Burnished  and  bright  and  clean,  as  if  for  parade 

or  inspection  ! 
This  is  the  sword   of  Damascus   I   fought  with 

in  Flanders ;    this  breastplate, 
Well  I  remember  the  day  !   once  saved  my  life 

in  a  skirmish; 


6       THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Here  in  front  you  can  see  the  very  dint  of  the 

bullet 
Fired   point-blank    at    my   heart   by   a   Spanish 

arcabucero. 
Had  it  not  been  of  sheer  steel,   the    forgotten 

bones  of  Miles  Standish 
Would    at    this    moment    be    mould,    in    their 

grave  in  the  Flemish  morasses." 
Thereupon   answered   John   Alden,    but  looked 

not  up  from  his  writing: 
"Truly  the  breath  of  the  Lord  hath  slackened 

the  speed  of  the  bullet; 
He    in    his    mercy   preserved   you,    to    be    our 

shield  and  our  weapon!" 
Still    the    Captain    continued,    unheeding    the 

words  of  the  stripling: 
"See,  how  bright  they  are  burnished,  as  if   in 

an  arsenal  hanging; 
That   is    because   I   have   done  it  myself,  and 

not  left  it  to  others. 


THE   COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH.      7 

Serve   yourself,   would   you   be  well   served,    is 

an  excellent  adage; 
So  I  take  care   of   my   arms,    as   you   of   your 

pens  and  your  inkhorn. 
Then,   too,    there   are   my   soldiers,    my  great, 

invincible  army, 
Twelve   men,    all    equipped,    having    each    his 

rest  and  his  matchlock, 
Eighteen  shillings  a  month,  together  with  diet 

and  pillage, 
And,    like    Caesar,   I    know  the    name    of    each 

of  my  soldiers !  " 
This    he    said    with    a    smile,    that    danced    in 

his   eyes,    as   the   sunbeams 
Dance   on   the   waves   of   the    sea,    and   vanish 

again  in  a  moment. 
Alden  laughed  as  he  wrote,  and  still  the  Cap- 
tain continued: 
"Look!    you    can    see    from    this    window    my 

brazen  howitzer  planted 


8      THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH 

High   on   the   roof    of    the  church,  a  preachei 

who  speaks  to  the  purpose, 
Steady,  straight-forward,  and  strong,  with  irre- 
sistible logic, 
Orthodox,    flashing   conviction    right    into    the 

hearts  of  the  heathen. 
Now  we  are  ready,   I  think,  for  any  assault  of 

the  Indians; 
Let  them  come,  if   they  like,  and   the    sooner 

they  try  it  the  better,  — 
Let  them  come   if   they  like,   be   it  sagamore, 

sachem,  or  pow-wow, 
Aspinet,   Samoset,   Corbitant,   Squanto,   or   To- 

kamahamon!" 

Long  at  the  window  he  stood,  and  wistfully 
gazed  on  the  landscape, 

Washed  with  a  cold  gray  mist,  the  vapory 
breath  of  the  east-wind, 

Forest  and  meadow  and  hill,  and  the  steel- 
blue  rim  of  the  ocean, 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.      9 

Lying  silent  and  sad,  in  the  afternoon  shadows 

and  sunshine. 
Over   his    countenance    flitted    a    shadow    like 

those  on  the  landscape, 
Gloom  intermingled  with  light;  and  his  voice 

was  subdued  with  emotion, 
Tenderness,   pity,   regret,   as  after  a    pause    he 

proceeded : 
"Yonder   there,    on   the    hill   by  the    sea,    lies 

buried  Rose  Standish; 
Beautiful   rose   of    love,   that  bloomed   for   me 

by  the  wayside! 
She  was    the   first   to    die   of   all  who  came  in 

the  May  Flower! 
Green  above  her  is  growing  the  field  of  wheat 

we  have  sown  there, 
Better   to   hide    from    the    Indian    scouts    the 

graves  of  our  people, 
Lest    they    should    count    them    and    see    how 

many  already  have  perished ! " 


10    THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Sadly  his  face  he  averted,  and  strode  up  and 
down,  and  was  thoughtful. 

Fixed  to  the  opposite  wall  was  a  shelf  of 
books,  and  among  them 

Prominent  three,  distinguished  alike  for  bulk 
and  for  binding; 

Bariffe's  Artillery  Guide,  and  the  Commen- 
taries of  Caesar, 

Out  of  the  Latin  translated  by  Arthur  Goldinge 
of  London, 

And,  as  if  guarded  by  these,  between  them 
was  standing  the  Bible. 

Musing  a  moment  before  them,  Miles  Standish 
paused,  as  if  doubtful 

Which  of  the  three  he  should  choose  for  his 
consolation  and  comfort, 

Whether  the  wars  of  the  Hebrews,  the  famous 
campaigns  of  the  Romans, 

Or  the  Artillery  practice,  designed  for  bel- 
ligerent Christians. 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STANDISH.    11 

Finally   down    from    its   shelf   he    dragged   the 

ponderous  Roman, 
Seated  himself  at  the  window,  and  opened  the 

book,  and  in  silence 
Turned     o'er     the     well-worn     leaves,     where 

thumb-marks  thick  on  the  margin, 
Like     the    trample    of    feet,    proclaimed     the 

battle  was  hottest. 
Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurry- 
ing pen  of  the  stripling, 
Busily  writing  epistles  important,  to  go  by  the 

May  Flower, 
Ready  to  sail  on  the  morrow,  or  next  day  at 

latest,  God  willing! 
Homeward  bound  with  the  tidings  of  all  that 

terrible  winter, 
Letters  written  by  Alden,  and  full  of  the  name 

of  Priscilla, 
Full  of  the  name  and  the  fame  of  the  Puritan 

maiden  Priscilla! 


II. 

LOVE   AND    FRIENDSHIP. 

Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurry- 
ing pen  of  the  stripling, 

Or  an  occasional  sigh  from  the  laboring  heart 
of  the  Captain, 

Reading    the    marvellous   words    and   achieve- 
ments of  Julius  Caesar. 

After  a  while  he  exclaimed,  as  he  smote  with 
his  hand,  palm  downwards, 

Heavily  on  the  page:   "A  wonderful  man  was 
this  Caesar! 

You  are  a  writer,  and  I  am  a  fighter,  but  here 
is  a  fellow 

Who  could  both  write  and  fight,  and   in  both 
was  equally  skilful !  " 
12 


THE  COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STANDISH.    13 

Straightway   answered   and   spake   John   Alden, 

the  comely,  the  youthful: 
"Yes,  he  was  equally  skilled,   as  you  say,  with 

his  pen  and  his  weapons. 
Somewhere    have    I    read,  but  where    I    forget, 

he  could  dictate 
Seven  letters  at  once,  at  the  same  time  writing 

his  memoirs." 
"Truly,"   continued   the    Captain,  not   heeding 

or  hearing  the  other, 
"Truly    a    wonderful    man    was    Caius    Julius 

Caesar ! 
Better    be    first,    he    said,    in   a   little    Iberian 

village, 
Than  be  second  in  Rome,  and  I  think  he  was 

right  when  he  said  it. 
Twice  was  he  married  before   he  was   twenty, 

and  many  times  after; 
Battles  five  hundred  he  fought,  and  a  thousand 
cities  he  conquered; 


14     THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

He,    too,    fought    in    Flanders,    as    he    himself 

has  recorded; 
Finally    he    was    stabbed    by    his    friend,    the 

orator  Brutus! 
Now,  do  you  know  what  he  did  on  a  certain 

occasion  in  Flanders, 
When    the    rear-guard    of    his    army   retreated, 

the  front  giving  way  too, 
And  the  immortal  Twelfth  Legion  was  crowded 

so  closely  together 
There  was  no   room    for   their   swords?     Why, 

he  seized  a  shield  from  a  soldier, 
Put  himself  straight  at  the  head  of  his  troops 

and  commanded  the  captains, 
Calling    on    each    by  his    name,    to    order    for- 
ward the  ensigns; 
Then    to    widen    the    ranks,     and    give    more 

room  for  their  weapons; 
So  he  won   the  day,  the   battle   of   something- 

or-other. 


THE  COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STAN  DISH.    15 

That's  what  I  always  say;  if  you  wish  a  thing 

to  be  well  done, 
You  must  do   it  yourself,  you   must   not  leave 

it  to  others!" 

All  was  silent  again;  the  Captain  continued 

his  reading. 
Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurry- 
ing pen  of  the  stripling 
Writing  epistles   important  to  go   next  day  by 

the  May  Flower, 
Filled   with    the   name    and    the    fame    of    the 

Puritan  maiden  Priscilla; 
Every  sentence  began  or  closed  with  the  name 

of  Priscilla, 
Till  the  treacherous  pen,  to  which  he  confided 

the  secret, 
Strove    to    betray    it   by   singing    and    shouting 

the  name  of  Priscilla! 
Finally  closing  his  book,   with  a  bang  of  the 

ponderous  cover, 


16    THE  COURTSHrP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Sudden   and   loud   as   the   sound   of    a   soldier 

grounding  his  musket, 
Thus  to  the  young  man  spake   Miles   Standish 

the  Captain  of  Plymouth: 
"When   you    have    finished   your  work,    I   have 

something  important  to  tell  you. 
Be  not  however   in  haste;    I   can  wait;   I   shall 

not  be  impatient !  " 
Straightway   Alden    replied,    as    he    folded    the 

last  of  his  letters, 
Pushing  his  papers  aside,  and  giving  respect 

ful  attention: 
"Speak;  for  whenever  you  speak,   I  am  always 

ready  to  listen, 
Always    ready    to    hear    whatever    pertains    to 

Miles  Standish." 
Thereupon  answered  the  Captain,  embarrassed, 

and  culling  his  phrases: 
"  'T  is   not  good   for  a   man  to  be    alone,   say 

the  Scriptures, 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH.    17 

This  I  have  said  before,   and  again   and  again 

I  repeat  it; 
Every  hour    in    the    day,    I    think   it,    and   feel 

it,   and  say  it. 
Since   Rose   Standish   died,   my  life   has   been 

weary  and  dreary; 
Sick  at  heart  have  I  been,  beyond  the  healing 

of  friendship. 
Oft  in  my  lonely  hours  have  I  thought  of   the 

maiden  Priscilla. 
She    is    alone    in    the    world;    her    father    and 

mother  and   brother 
Died  in  the  winter  together;  I  saw  her  going 

and  coming, 
Now  to    the    grave  of   the   dead,   and   now   to 

the  bed  of  the  dying, 
Patient,    courageous,    and    strong,   and    said    to 

myself,   that  if   ever 
There    were     angels    on    earth,    as    there    are 

angels  in  heaven, 


18     THE   COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH. 

Two    have  I  seen   and   known;    and    the    angel 

whose  name  is  Priscilla 
Holds  in  my  desolate  life  the  place  which  the 

other  abandoned. 
Long  have  I  cherished   the  thought,  but   never 

have   dared  to  reveal   it, 
Being  a  coward  in  this,  though  valiant  enough 

for  the  most  part. 
Go     to     the     damsel     Priscilla,    the     loveliest 

maiden  of  Plymouth, 
Say  that  a   blunt    old    Captain,   a   man  not  of 

words  but  of  actions, 
Offers  his  hand   and   his   heart,   the    hand   and 

heart  of  a  soldier. 
Not    in    these  words,    you    know,    but    this    in 

short  is  my  meaning; 
I    am    a   maker    of    war,    and   not   a   maker   of 

phrases. 
You,  who  are  bred  as  a  scholar,  can   say  it  in 

elegant  language, 


THE  COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STANDISH.    19 

Such  as  you  read  in  your  books  of  the  plead- 
ings and  wooings  of  lovers, 

Such  as  you  think  best  adapted  to  win  the 
heart  of  a  maiden." 


When  he  had  spoken,  John  Alden,  the  fair- 
haired,   taciturn  stripling, 

All  aghast  at  his  words,  surprised,  embar- 
rassed, bewildered, 

Trying  to  mask  his  dismay  by  treating  the 
subject  with  lightness, 

Trying  to  smile,  and  yet  feeling  his  heart 
stand  still  in  his  bosom, 

Just  as  a  timepiece  stops  in  a  house  that  is 
stricken  by  lightning, 

Thus  made  answer  and  spake,  or  rather  stam- 
mered than  answered: 

"Such  a  message  as  that,  I  am  sure  I  should 
mangle  and  mar  it; 


20    THE  COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

If   you  would   have   it  well  done,  —  I   am   only 

repeating  your  maxim,  — ■ 
You   must  do   it  yourself,   you    must   not    leave 

it  to  others !  " 
But  with  the  air  of   a  man  whom   nothing  can 

turn  from  his  purpose, 
Gravely   shaking    his    head,    made    answer    the 

Captain  of  Plymouth: 
"Truly    the    maxim    is    good,    and    I    do    not 

mean  to  gainsay  it; 
But  we   must  use   it  discreetly,    and  not  waste 

powder  for  nothing. 
Now,  as    I    said   before,   I  was   never  a  maker 

of  phrases. 
I  can  march  up  to  a  fortress  and  summon  the 

place  to  surrender, 
But   march    up   to   a  woman  with    such   a  pro- 
posal,  I  dare  not. 
I  'm  not   afraid   of  bullets,   nor  shot   from   the 

mouth  of  a  cannon, 


THE  COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    21 

But  of  a  thundering   "No!"   point-blank  from 

the  mouth  of  a  woman, 
That    I    confess    I  'm    afraid    of,     nor    am    I 

ashamed  to  confess  it! 
So  you  must  grant  my  request,   for  you  are  an 

elegant  scholar, 
Having  the  graces  of  speech,  and  skill  in  the 

turning  of  phrases." 
Taking  the   hand   of  his   friend,   who   still  was 

reluctant  and  doubtful, 
Holding    it   long    in    his  own,    and  pressing  it 

kindly,   he  added: 
"Though  I  have  spoken  thus   lightly,  yet  deep 

is  the  feeling  that  prompts  me; 
Surely   you    cannot    refuse   what    I    ask    in    the 

name  of  our  friendship  !  " 
Then   made   answer  John   Alden:    "The   name 

of  friendship  is  sacred; 
What   you    demand    in   that  name,    I   have   not 

the  power  to  deny  you!" 


22    THE  COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STAN  DISH. 

So    the    strong    will    prevailed,    subduing    and 

moulding  the  gentler, 
Friendship    prevailed    over    love,     and     Alden 

went  on  his  errand. 


III. 

THE    LOVER'S    ERRAND. 

So  the  strong  will  prevailed,   and  Alden  went 

on  his  errand, 
Out  of  the  street  of  the  village,  and  into  the 

paths  of  the  forest, 
Into  the  tranquil  woods,  where  blue-birds  and 

robins  were  building 
Towns    in    the    populous    trees,    with    hanging 

gardens  of  verdure, 
Peaceful,    aerial    cities    of    joy    and    affection 

and  freedom. 
All    around    him    was    calm,    but    within    him 

commotion  and  conflict, 
Love    contending    with    friendship,    and     self 

with  each  generous  impulse. 
23 


24     THE   COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH. 

To   and   fro   in    his   breast   his    thoughts    were 

heaving  and  dashing, 
As    in    a   foundering   ship,    with    every   roll   of 

the  vessel, 
Washes  the  bitter  sea,   the   merciless  surge  of 

the   ocean ! 
"Must    I    relinquish    it   all,"    he   cried   with   a 

wild  lamentation, 
"Must  I   relinquish   it  all,    the   joy,   the   hope, 

the  illusion? 
Was  it  for  this  I  have  loved,  and  waited,   and 

worshipped  in  silence? 
Was  it  for  this  I  have  followed  the  flying  feet 

and  the  shadow 
Over    the    wintry    sea,    to    the    desolate    shores 

of  New  England? 
Truly    the    heart    is    deceitful,    and    out    of    its 

depths  of  corruption 
Rise,   like    an    exhalation,    the   misty  phantoms 

of  passion; 


THE  COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    25 

Angels  of  light  they  seem,  but  are  only  delu- 
sions of  Satan. 

All  is  clear  to  me  now;  I  feel  it,  I  see  it 
distinctly! 

This  is  the  hand  of  the  Lord;  it  is  laid  upon 
me  in  anger, 

For  I  have  followed  too  much  the  heart's 
desires  and  devices, 

Worshipping  Astaroth  blindly,  and  impious 
idols  of  Baal. 

This  is  the  cross  I  must  bear;  the  sin  and  the 
swift  retribution." 

So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  John  Alden 

went  on  his  errand; 
Crossing     the     brook    at    the    ford,    where    it 

brawled  over  pebble  and  shallow, 
Gathering    still,    as   he   went,    the   May-flowers 

blooming  around  him, 
Fragrant,    filling    the    air    with    a    strange    and 

wonderful  sweetness 


2G     THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Children   lost   in  the  woods,   and  covered  with 

leaves  in  their  slumber. 
"Puritan   flowers,"  he  said,   "and    the    type   of 

Puritan  maidens, 
Modest   and   simple   and   sweet,    the   very  type 

of  Priscilla ! 
So   I  will   take   them    to   her;    to    Priscilla   the 

May-flower  of  Plymouth, 
Modest   and    simple    and    sweet,    as    a    parting 

gift  will  I  take  them; 
Breathing   their    silent   farewells,   as    they    fade 

and  wither  and  perish, 
Soon  to  be  thrown  away  as  is  the  heart  of  the 

giver." 
So    through    the    Plymouth  woods    John    Alden 

went  on  his  errand; 
Came  to  an  open  space,  and    saw   the    disk  of 

the  ocean, 
Sail-less,   sombre,    and    cold  with   the   comfort- 
less breath  of   the  east-wind; 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    27 

Saw  the   new-built  house,   and    people    at  work 

in  a  meadow; 
Heard,  as  he  drew  near  the  door,   the  musical 

voice  of  Priscilla 
Singing    the    hundredth    Psalm,    the    grand    old 

Puritan  anthem, 
Music  that  Luther  sang  to  the  sacred  words  of 

the  Psalmist, 
Full  of  the  breath  of   the  Lord,  consoling  and 

comforting  many. 
Then,    as  he   opened   the   door,    he  beheld   the 

form  of  the  maiden 
Seated  beside  her  wheel,  and  the  carded  wool 

like  a  snow-drift 
Piled   at    her    knee,    her   white    hands    feeding 

the  ravenous  spindle, 
While  with  her  foot  on  the  treadle  she  guided 

the  wheel  in  its  motion. 
Open    wide    on    her     lap     lay    the    well-worn 
psalm-book  of  Ainsworth, 


28    THE   COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Printed    in    Amsterdam,     the    words    and    the 

music  together, 
Rough-hewn,  angular  notes,  like  stones  in  the 

wall  of  a  churchyard, 
Darkened    and    overhung   by   the    running  vine 

of  the  verses. 
Such  was  the  book  from  whose  pages  she  sang 

the  old  Puritan  anthem, 
She,  the    Puritan   girl,   in    the    solitude    of    the 

forest, 
Making    the    humble    house    and    the    modest 

apparel  of  home -spun 
Beautiful  with   her   beauty,   and   rich  with   the 

wealth  of  her  being! 
Over   him    rushed,   like   a   wind   that   is    keen 

and  cold  and  relentless, 
Thoughts  of   what   might   have   been,   and   the 

weight  and  woe  of  his  errand; 
All    the    dreams    that    had    faded,   and    all    the 

hopes  that  had  vanished, 


THE  COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STAN  DISH.    29 

All   his   life    henceforth   a   dreary   and   tenant- 
less  mansion, 
Haunted  by  vain  regrets,  and  pallid,  sorrowful 

faces. 
Still  he  said  to  himself,  and  almost  fiercely  he 

said  it, 
"Let  not   him    that   putteth   his    hand    to    the 

plough  look  backwards; 
Though     the     ploughshare     cut     through     the 

flowers  of  life  to  its  fountains, 
Though   it   pass   o'er   the   graves   of    the    dead 

and  the  hearths  of  the  living, 
It    is    the    will    of    the    Lord;    and    his    mercy 

endureth  for  ever! " 

So  he   entered   the   house:   and   the  hum  of 

the  wheel  and  the  singing 
Suddenly  ceased;   for  Priscilla,   aroused  by  his 

step  on  the  threshold, 
Rose  as  he   entered,   and  gave  him  her  hand, 

in  signal  of  welcome, 


30    THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Saying,    "I    knew   it    was    you,    when    I    heard 

your  step  in  the  passage; 
For    I    was    thinking    of    you,   as    I    sat    there 

singing  and  spinning." 
Awkward     and     dumb     with     delight,     that     a 

thought  of  him  had  been  mingled 
Thus  in  the  sacred  psalm,   that  came  from  the 

heart  of  the  maiden, 
Silent  before   her  he  stood,   and   gave    her   the 

flowers  for  an  answer, 
Finding   no    words    for    his    thought.     He    re- 
membered that  day  in  the  winter, 
After   the    first   great    snow,    when   he    broke    a 

path  from  the  village, 
Reeling  and  plunging  along  through   the   drifts 

that  encumbered  the  doorway, 
Stamping  the  snow  from  his  feet  as  he  entered 

the  house,  and  Priscilla 
Laughed   at  his  snowy   locks,   and  gave   him  a 

seat  by  the  fireside3 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH.    31 

Grateful  and  pleased  to  know  he   had   thought 

of  her  in  the  snow-storm. 
Had  he  but  spoken  then !  perhaps  not  in  vain 

had  he  spoken; 
Now  it  was  all   too  late;    the   golden  moment 

had  vanished ! 
So  he  stood  there  abashed,   and  gave  her  the 

flowers  for  an  answer. 

Then  they  sat  down  and  talked  of  the  birds 

and  the  beautiful  Spring-time, 
Talked  of  their  friends  at  home,  and  the  May 

Flower  that  sailed  on  the  morrow. 
"I   have   been   thinking   all   day,"   said   gently 

the  Puritan  maiden, 
"Dreaming  all  night,  and  thinking  all  day,  of 

the  hedge-rows  of  England,  — 
They  are   in  blossom  now,  and  the  country  is 

all  like  a  garden; 
Thinking  of  lanes  and  fields,  and  the  song  of 

the  lark  and  the  linnet, 


32    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Seeing  the  village  street,  and  familiar  faces  of 

neighbors 
Going  about  as  of  old,  and  stopping  to  gossip 

together, 
And,    at    the    end    of    the    street,    the    village 

church,  with  the  ivy 
Climbing   the   old   gray   tower,    and    the    quiet 

graves  in  the  churchyard. 
Kind  are  the  people  I  live  with,  and  dear  to 

me  my  religion; 
Still   my    heart    is    so    sad,    that   I   wish  myself 

back  in  Old  England. 
You  will    say   it    is   wrong,    but    I   cannot  help 

it:- 1  almost 
Wish   myself   back  in  Old  England,  I   feel  so 

lonely  and  wretched." 

Thereupon    answered    the    youth :  —  "  Indeed 
I  do  not  condemn  you; 
Stouter  hearts  than  a  woman's  have  quailed  in 
this  terrible  winter. 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH.    33 

Yours    is    tender    and    trusting,    and    needs    a 

stronger  to  lean  on; 
So   I   have   come   to  you   now,   with    an    offer 

and  proffer  of  marriage 
Made  by  a  good  man  and  true,  Miles  Standish 

the  Captain  of  Plymouth !  " 

Thus  he  delivered  his   message,  the   dexter- 
ous writer  of  letters,  — 
Did  not  embellish  the  theme,  nor  array  it  in 

beautiful  phrases, 
But  came  straight  to  the  point,  and  blurted  it 

out  like  a  schoolboy; 
Even  the  Captain   himself   could    hardly   have 

said  it  more  bluntly. 
Mute    with    amazement    and    sorrow,    Priscilla 

the  Puritan  maiden 
Looked    into    Alden's    face,    her   eyes   dilated 

with  wonder, 
Feeling    his   words   like   a  blow,  that    stunned 

her  and  rendered  her  speechless; 


34    THE  COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STAN  DISH. 

Till  at  length  she  exclaimed,   interrupting  the 

ominous  silence: 
"If  the  great  Captain  of  Plymouth  is  so  very 

eager  to  wed  me, 
Why  does  he  not  come  himself,  and  take  the 

trouble  to  woo  nre? 
If   I   am   not  worth    the  wooing,    I    surely   am 

not  worth  the  winning!" 
Then     John     Alden     began     explaining     and 

smoothing  the  matter, 
Making    it   worse    as    he    went,   by  saying   the 

Captain  was  busy,  — 
Had  no  time  for  such   things;  — such   things! 

the  words  grating  harshly 
Fell    on    the    ear    of    Priscilla;    and   swift  as  a 

flash  she  made  answer: 
"Has  he  no  time  for  such  things,   as  you  call 

it,  before  he  is  married, 
Would    he    be    likely    to   find    it,  or   make    it, 

after  the  wedding? 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH.    35 

That    is    the    way    with    you    men;    you    don't 

understand  us,  you  cannot. 
When   you    have    made    up    your    minds,    after 

thinking  of  this  one  and  that  one, 
Choosing,    selecting,   rejecting,   comparing   one 

with  another, 
Then    you    make     known     your     desire,    with 

abrupt  and  sudden  avowal, 
And    are    offended    and    hurt,    and    indignant 

perhaps,  that  a  woman 
Does  not  respond  at  once  to  a  love  that  she 

never  suspected, 
Does    not    attain    at    a   bound    the    height    to 

which  you  have  been  climbing. 
This     is    not    right    nor     just:     for    surely    a 

woman's  affection 
Is  not  a  thing  to  be  asked  for,   and   had   for 

only  the  asking. 
When  one   is  truly  in   love,   one  not  only  says 

it,  but  shows  it. 


36    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Had     he     but    waited    awhile,     had     he    only 

showed  that  he  loved  me, 
Even   this    Captain   of    yours  —  who  knows?  — 

at  last  might  have  won  me, 
Old  and  rough  as  he  is;  but  now  it  never  can 

happen." 

Still    John    Alden    went    on,    unheeding    the 

words  of  Priscilla, 
Urging  the  suit  of  his  friend,   explaining,  per- 
suading,  expanding; 
Spoke  of  his  courage  and  skill,  and  of  all  his 

battles  in  Flanders, 
How  with  the  people  of   God  he  had  chosen 

to  suffer  affliction, 
How,    in   return    for   his   zeal,    they  had   made 

him  Captain  of  Plymouth; 
He    was    a    gentleman    born,    could    trace    his 

pedigree  plainly 
Back  to    Hugh    Standish   of    Duxbury  Hall,   in 

Lancashire,  England, 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STAN  DISH.    37 

Who  was  the   son  of   Ralph,   and   the  grandson 

of  Thurston  de  Standish; 
Heir  unto  vast  estates,  of  which  he  was  basely 

defrauded, 
Still    bore    the    family  arms,    and   had    for    his 

crest  a  cock  argent 
Combed  and  wattled  gules,  and  all  the  rest  of 

the  blazon. 
He   was   a   man  of   honor,  of   noble  and  gen- 
erous nature; 
Though    he    was    rough,    he    was    kindly;    she 

knew  how  during  the  winter 
He    had    attended    the    sick,    with    a   hand   as 

gentle  as  woman's; 
Somewhat   hasty  and    hot,    he    could   not  deny 

it,  and  headstrong, 
Stern   as  a  soldier   might   be,  but   hearty,  and 

placable  always, 
Not  to  be  laughed  at  and  scorned,  because  he 

was  little  of  stature; 


V 


38    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

For    he    was     great    of     heart,    magnanimous, 

courtly,   courageous; 
Any  woman   in   Plymouth,  nay,    any  woman   in 

England, 
Might   be   happy  and   proud   to  be  called   the 

wife  of  Miles  Standish! 

But  as  he  warmed  and  glowed,  in  his  simple 

and  eloquent  language, 
Quite  forgetful  of   self,  and  full  of  the   praise 

of  his  rival, 
Archly    the    maiden    smiled,    and,    with    eyes 

overrunning  with  laughter, 
Said,   in   a   tremulous  voice,  "Why  don't   you 

speak  for  yourself,  John?" 


IV. 

JOHN  ALDEN. 

Into  the  open  air  John  Alden,  perplexed  and 

bewildered, 
Rushed     like    a    man    insane,     and    wandered 

alone  by  the  sea-side; 
Paced  up  and  down  the  sands,  and   bared   his 

head  to  the  east-wind, 
Cooling    his    heated    brow,    and    the    fire    and 

fever  within  him. 
Slowly  as  out  of  the  heavens,  with  apocalypti- 
cal splendors, 
Sank  the  City  of  God,   in  the  vision  of  John 

the  Apostle, 
So,  with  its  cloudy  walls  of  chrysolite,  jasper, 

and  sapphire, 

39 


40     THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 

Sank  the  broad  red   sun,   and   over  its   turrets 

uplifted 
Glimmered  the  golden  reed  of  the  angel  who 

measured  the  city. 

"Welcome,  O  wind  of  the  East!"  he  ex- 
claimed in  his  wild  exultation, 

"Welcome,  O  wind  of  the  East,  from  the 
caves  of  the  misty  Atlantic ! 

Blowing  o'er  fields  of  dulse,  and  measureless 
meadows  of  sea-grass, 

Blowing  o'er  rocky  wastes,  and  the  grottos 
and  gardens  of  ocean! 

Lay  thy  cold,  moist  hand  on  my  burning  fore- 
head, and  wrap  me 

Close  in  thy  garments  of  mist,  to  allay  the 
fever  within  me  !  " 

Like  an  awakened  conscience,  the  sea  was 
moaning  and  tossing, 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STAN  DISH.    41 

Beating  remorseful  and  loud  the  mutable  sands 

of  the  sea-shore. 
Fierce  in  his  soul  was  the  struggle  and  tumult 

of  passions  contending; 
Love  triumphant  and  crowned,  and  friendship 

wounded  and  bleeding, 
Passionate    cries    of    desire,    and    importunate 

pleadings  of  duty! 
"Is    it   my  fault,"  he    said,   "that   the    maiden 

has  chosen  between  us? 
Is  it  my  fault  that  he  failed,  —  my  fault  that  I 

am  the  victor?" 
Then  within  him  there  thundered  a  voice,  like 

the  voice  of  the  Prophet: 
"It     hath    displeased    the     Lord!"  — and     he 

thought  of   David's  transgression, 
Bathsheba's    beautiful    face,   and   his  friend   in 

the  front  of  the  battle! 
Shame  and  confusion  of   guilt,  and   abasement 

and  self-condemnation, 


42     THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STAN  DISH. 

Overwhelmed   him    at    once;    and   he    cried   in 

the  deepest  contrition: 
"It     hath     displeased    the    Lord!      It    is    the 

temptation  of  Satan !  " 

Then,  uplifting  his  head,   he  looked  at   the 

sea,  and  beheld  there 
Dimly  the    shadowy   form   of    the    May   Flower 

riding  at  anchor, 
Rocked  on  the  rising  tide,   and  ready  to  sail 

on  the  morrow; 
Heard  the  voices  of  men  through  the  mist,  the 

rattle  of  cordage 
Thrown  on  the  deck,  the   shouts  of  the  mate, 

and  the  sailors'   "Ay,  ay,  Sir!" 
Clear  and  distinct,  but  not  loud,   in  the  drip- 
ping air  of  the  twilight. 
Still    for    a  moment    he    stood,  and    listened, 

and  stared  at  the  vessel, 
Then   went   hurriedly  on,   as   one  who,   seeing 

a  phantom, 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    43 

Stops,   then  quickens  his  pace,  and  follows  the 

beckoning  shadow. 
"Yes,   it  is  plain   to   me   now,"  he   murmured; 

"the  hand  of  the  Lord  is 
Leading  me  out  of  the  land  of  darkness,  the 

bondage  of  error, 
Through  the  sea,  that  shall  lift  the  walls  of  its 

waters  around  me, 
Hiding   me,    cutting    me    off,    from    the    cruel 

thoughts  that  pursue  me. 
Back  will  I  go  o'er  the  ocean,  this  dreary  land 

will  abandon, 
Her  whom  I  may  not  love,  and  him  whom  my 

heart  has  offended. 
Better   to    be    in    my  grave    in    the   green   old 

churchyard  in  England, 
Close   by    my   mother's    side,    and   among    the 

dust  of  my  kindred; 
Better   be   dead   and   forgotten,  than  living  in 

shame  and  dishonor! 


44    THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Sacred    and    safe    and    unseen,    in    the    dark  of 

the  narrow  chamber 
With   me    my    secret   shall    lie,    like    a    buried 

jewel  that  glimmers 
Bright     on     the    hand    that    is    dust,     in    the 

chambers  of  silence  and  darkness,  — 
Yes,  as  the  marriage  ring  of  the  great  espousal 

hereafter! " 

Thus  as  he  spake,  he  turned,  in  the  strength 

of  his  strong  resolution, 
Leaving    behind    him    the    shore,    and   hurried 

along  in  the  twilight, 
Through    the    congenial    gloom    of    the    forest 

silent  and  sombre, 
Till   he  beheld   the   lights  in  the   seven   houses 

of  Plymouth, 
Shining  like  seven  stars  in  the  dusk  and  mist 

of  the  evening. 
Soon    he    entered    his    door,    and    found    the 

redoubtable  Captain 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    45 

Sitting    alone,    and    absorbed    in    the    martial 

pages  of  Caesar, 
Fighting  some  great  campaign   in   Hainault  or 

Brabant  or  Flanders. 
"Long    have    you    been    on    your    errand,"    he 

said  with  a  cheery  demeanor, 
Even    as    one  who    is  waiting  an    answer,   and 

fears  not  the  issue. 
"Not  far  off  is  the  house,   although   the  woods 

are  between  us; 
But  you  have  lingered  so  long,   that  while  you 

were  going  and  coming 
I    have    fought    ten    battles    and    sacked    and 

demolished  a  city. 
Come,  sit  down,  and  in  order  relate  to  me  all 
that  has  happened." 

Then    John    Alden    spake,    and    related    the 
wondrous  adventure, 
From  beginning   to   end,    minutely,    just  as    it 
happened; 


46    THE  COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

How  he  had  seen  Priscilla,  and  how  he  had 
sped  in  his  courtship, 

Only  smoothing  a  little,  and  softening  down 
her  refusal. 

But  when  he  came  at  length  to  the  words 
Priscilla  had  spoken, 

Words  so  tender  and  cruel:  "Why  don't  you 
speak  for  yourself,  John?" 

Up  leaped  the  Captain  of  Plymouth,  and 
stamped  on  the  floor,   till   his   armor 

Clanged  on  the  wall,  where  it  hung,  with  a 
sound  of  sinister  omen. 

All  his  pent-up  wrath  burst  forth  in  a  sudden 
explosion, 

Even  as  a  hand-grenade,  that  scatters  destruc- 
tion around   it. 

Wildly  he  shouted,  and  loud:  "John  Alden! 
you  have  betrayed  me ! 

Me,  Miles  Standish,  your  friend !  have  sup- 
planted, defrauded,  betrayed  me! 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAhlDISH.    47 

One    of    my  ancestors    ran   his   sword    through 

the  heart  of  Wat  Tyler; 
Who   shall   prevent  me    from    running   my  own 

through  the  heart  of  a  traitor? 
Yours    is    the   greater   treason,    for   yours   is  a 

treason  to  friendship ! 
You,  who  lived  under  my  roof,  whom  I  cher- 
ished and  loved  as  a  brother; 
You,    who   have   fed   at   my  board,  and   drunk 

at  my  cup,  to  whose  keeping 
I  have    intrusted  my   honor,   my   thoughts    the 

most  sacred  and  secret,  — 
You    too,    Brutus!    ah    woe    to    the    name    of 

friendship  hereafter! 
Brutus  was  Caesar's  friend,  and  you  were  mine, 

but  henceforward 
Let  there  be  nothing  between  us  save  war,  and 

implacable  hatred!" 


48    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH. 

So  spake  the  Captain  of  Plymouth,  and 
strode  about  in  the  chamber, 

Chafing  and  choking  with  rage;  like  cords 
were  the  veins  on  his  temples. 

But  in  the  midst  of  his  anger  a  man  appeared 
at  the  doorway, 

Bringing  in  uttermost  haste  a  message  of 
urgent  importance, 

Rumors  of  danger  and  war  and  hostile  incur- 
sions of  Indians! 

Straightway  the  Captain  paused,  and,  without 
further  question  or  parley, 

Took  from  the  nail  on  the  wall  his  sword  with 
its  scabbard  of  iron, 

Buckled  the  belt  round  his  waist,  and,  frown- 
ing fiercely,  departed. 

Alden  was  left  alone.  He  heard  the  clank  of 
the  scabbard 

Growing  fainter  and  fainter,  and  dying  away 
in  the  distance. 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH.    49 

Then  he  arose  from  his  seat,  and  looked  forth 

into  the  darkness, 
Felt  the  cool  air  blow  on  his  cheek,  that  was 

hot  with  the  insult, 
Lifted   his   eyes   to   the   heavens,   and,   folding 

his  hands  as  in  childhood, 
Prayed   in   the   silence  of   night  to  the  Father 

who  seeth  in  secret. 

Meanwhile  the  choleric  Captain  strode 
wrathful  away  to  the  council, 

Found  it  already  assembled,  impatiently  wait- 
ing his  coming; 

Men  in  the  middle  of  life,  austere  and  grave 
in  deportment, 

Only  one  of  them  old,  the  hill  that  was  near- 
est to  heaven, 

Covered  with  snow,  but  erect,  the  excellent 
Elder  of  Plymouth. 

God  had  sifted  three  kingdoms  to  find  the 
wheat  for  this  planting, 


50     THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Then  had  sifted  the  wheat,   as  the   living  seed 

of  a  nation; 
So    say    the    chronicles    old,    and    such    is   the 

faith  of  the  people! 
Near  them  was  standing  an  Indian,  in  attitude 

stern  and  defiant, 
Naked  down  to  the  waist,  and  grim  and  fero- 
cious in  aspect; 
While    on    the    table    before    them    was    lying 

unopened  a  Bible, 
Ponderous,    bound    in    leather,    brass-studded, 

printed  in  Holland, 
And    beside    it    outstretched     the    skin    of     a 

rattlesnake  glittered, 
Filled,    like    a   quiver,  with    arrows;    a    signal 

and  challenge  of  warfare, 
Brought    by    the    Indian,    and    speaking    with 

arrowy  tongues  of  defiance. 
This    Miles    Standish    beheld,    as    he    entered, 

and  heard  them  debating 


THE  COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    51 

What  were  an  answer  befitting  the  hostile  mes- 
sage and  menace, 

Talking  of  this  and  of  that,  contriving,  sug- 
gesting,  objecting; 

One  voice  only  for  peace,  and  that  the  voice 
of  the  Elder, 

Judging  it  wise  and  well  that  some  at  least 
were  converted, 

Rather  than  any  were  slain,  for  this  was  but 
Christian  behavior! 

Then  outspake  Miles  Standish,  the  stalwart 
Captain  of  Plymouth, 

Muttering  deep  in  his  throat,  for  his  voice 
was  husky  with  anger, 

"What!  do  you  mean  to  make  war  with  milk 
and  the  water  of  roses? 

Is  it  to  shoot  red  squirrels  you  have  your 
howitzer  planted 

There  on  the  roof  of  the  church,  or  is  it  to 
shoot  red  devils? 


52    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Truly  the  only  tongue  that  is  understood  by  a 
savage 

Must  be  the  tongue  of   fire   that   speaks   from 
the  mouth  of  the  cannon ! " 

Thereupon    answered    and    said    the    excellent 
Elder  of   Plymouth, 

Somewhat  amazed  and  alarmed   at   this    irrev- 
erent language: 

"Not  so  thought  Saint  Paul,  nor  yet  the  other 
Apostles; 

Not     from     the     cannon's     mouth     were     the 
tongues  of  fire  they  spake  with!" 

But    unheeded    fell    this    mild    rebuke    on    the 
Captain, 

Who  had  advanced  to  the  table,  and  thus  con- 
tinued discoursing: 

"Leave  this  matter  to  me,  for  to  me  by  right 
it  pertaineth. 

War  is  a  terrible  trade;   but  in  the  cause  that 
is  righteous, 


THE   COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    53 

Sweet  is  the  smell  of  powder;  and  thus  I 
answer  the  challenge!" 

Then  from  the  rattlesnake's  skin,  with  a 
sudden,  contemptuous  gesture, 

Jerking  the  Indian  arrows,  he  filled  it  with 
powder  and  bullets 

Full  to  the  very  jaws,  and  handed  it  back  to 
the  savage, 

Saying,  in  thundering  tones:  "Here,  take  it! 
this  is  your  answer!  " 

Silently  out  of  the  room  then  glided  the  glis- 
tening savage, 

Bearing  the  serpent's  skin,  and  seeming  him- 
self like  a  serpent, 

Winding  his  sinuous  way  in  the  dark  to  the 
depths  of  the  forest. 


V. 

THE   SAILING   OF   THE    MAY    FLOWER. 

Just    in    the   gray  of   the   dawn,   as   the   mists 

uprose  from  the  meadows, 
There  was  a  stir  and  a  sound  in  the   slumber- 
ing village  of  Plymouth; 
Clanging  and  clicking  of  arms,  and  the  order 

imperative,    "  Forward  !  " 
Given    in    tone    suppressed,  a   tramp    of    feet, 

and  then  silence. 
Figures   ten,   in  the    mist,   marched  slowly  out 

of  the  village. 
Standish  the  stalwart  it  was,  with  eight  of  his 

valorous  army, 
Led    by    their    Indian    guide,    by    Hobomok, 

friend  of  the  white  men, 
54 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    55 

Northward  marching  to  quell  the  sudden  revolt 

of  the  savage. 
Giants  they  seemed  in  the  mist,  or  the  mighty 

men  of  King  David; 
Giants    in    heart    they  were,    who    believed    in 

God  and  the  Bible,  — 
Ay,  who  believed  in  the  smiting  of  Midianites 

and  Philistines. 
Over  them   gleamed   far  off   the   crimson   ban- 
ners of  morning; 
Under   them   loud    on    the    sands,    the    serried 

billows,   advancing, 
Fired    along    the    line,    and    in    regular    order 

retreated. 

Many  a  mile  had  they  marched,  when  at 
length  the  village  of  Plymouth 

Woke  from  its  sleep,  and  arose,  intent  on  its 
manifold  labors. 

Sweet  was  the  air  and  soft;  and  slowly  the 
smoke  from  the  chimneys 


56    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Rose     over     roofs     of     thatch,     and     pointed 

steadily  eastward; 
Men  came   forth  from   the    doors,  and   paused 

and  talked  of  the  weather, 
Said    that    the    wind    had    changed,    and    was 

blowing  fair  for  the  May  Flower; 
Talked    of    their    Captain's  departure,  and   all 

the  dangers  that  menaced, 
He  being  gone,  the  town,  and  what  should  be 

done  in  his  absence. 
Merrily  sang  the  birds,  and  the   tender  voices 

of  women 
Consecrated  with  hymns  the  common  cares  of 

the  household. 
Out  of  the  sea  rose  the  sun,  and  the  billows 

rejoiced  at  his  coming; 
Beautiful  were  his  feet  on  the  purple  tops  of 

the  mountains; 
Beautiful  on  the  sails    of  the  May  Flower  rid- 
ing at  anchor, 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STAN  DISH.    57 

Battered   and   blackened   and  worn   by  all   the 

storms  of  the  winter. 
Loosely   against    her    masts   was    hanging   and 

flapping  her  canvas, 
Rent  by   so    many  gales,   and   patched   by  the 

hands  of  the  sailors. 
Suddenly  from  her  side,  as  the  sun  rose  over 

the  ocean, 
Darted  a  puff  of    smoke,  and  floated  seaward; 

anon  rang 
Loud  over  field  and  forest  the  cannon's   roar, 

and  the  echoes 
Heard  and  repeated  the  sound,  the  signal-gun 

of  departure ! 
Ah!  but  with  louder  echoes  replied  the  hearts 

of  the  people ! 
Meekly,    in   voices   subdued,    the    chapter   was 

read  from  the  Bible, 
Meekly  the    prayer   was   begun,   but    ended    in 

fervent  entreaty  ! 


58     THE   COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH. 

Then  from   their  houses    in    haste    came    forth 

the  Pilgrims  of  Plymouth, 
Men   and    women    and    children,    all    hurrying 

down  to  the  sea-shore, 
Eager,  with  tearful  eyes,  to  say  farewell  to  the 

May  Flower, 
Homeward   bound   o'er    the    sea,    and    leaving 

them  here  in  the  desert. 

Foremost  among  them  was  Alden.     All  night 

he  had  lain  without  slumber, 
Turning    and    tossing    about    in    the    heat   and 

unrest  of   his  fever. 
He    had    beheld    Miles    Standish,    who    came 

back  late  from  the  council, 
Stalking  into  the  room,  and  heard  him  mutter 

and  murmur, 
Sometimes  it  seemed  a  prayer,  and  sometimes 

it  sounded  like  swearing. 
Once    he    had    come    to    the    bed,    and    stood 

there  a  moment  in  silence; 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STAN  DISH.    59 

Then  he  had  turned  away,  and  said:    "I  will 

not  awake  him; 
Let  him  sleep  on,   it  is  best;    for  what  is  the 

use  of  more  talking!" 
Then    he    extinguished    the    light,    and    threw 

himself  down  on  his  pallet, 
Dressed   as   he  was,  and   ready  to  start  at  the 

break  of  the  morning,  — 
Covered   himself  with   the   cloak  he  had  worn 

in  his  campaigns  in  Flanders,  — 
Slept  as  a  soldier  sleeps  in  his  bivouac,   ready 

for  action. 
But  with   the  dawn  he  arose;    in   the    twilight 

Alden  beheld  him 
Put   on   his   corslet   of   steel,   and  all  the  rest 

of  his  armor, 
Buckle    about    his    waist    his    trusty    blade  of 

Damascus, 
Take    from    the    corner    his    musket,  and    so 

stride  out  of  the  chamber. 


60    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Often  the  heart  of  the  youth  had  burned  and 

yearned  to  embrace  him, 
Often  his  lips  had  essayed  to  speak,  imploring 

for  pardon; 
All    the    old    friendship    came    back,    with    its 

tender  and  grateful  emotions; 
But  his  pride   overmastered  the   nobler  nature 

within  him,  — 
Pride,    and   the  sense   of   his   wrong,    and   the 

burning  fire  of  the  insult. 
So  he  beheld    his    friend    departing    in    anger, 

but  spake  not, 
Saw  him  go  forth  to  danger,  perhaps  to  death, 

and  he  spake  not! 
Then  he  arose  from  his   bed,  and   heard  what 

the  people  were  saying, 
Joined  in  the  talk  at  the   door,  with   Stephen 

and  Richard  and  Gilbert, 
Joined    in    the    morning    prayer,    and    in    the 

reading  of  Scripture, 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAND1SH.    61 

And,   with  the   others,   in   haste  went   hurrying 

down  to  the  sea-shore, 
Down   to   the    Plymouth   Rock,    that  had   been 

to  their  feet  as  a  door-step 
Into  a  world  unknown,  —  the  corner-stone  of  a 

nation ! 

There  with  his  boat  was  the  Master,  already 
a  little  impatient 
Lest    he    should    lose    the    tide,    or    the    wind 

might  shift  to  the  eastward, 
Square-built,     hearty,     and     strong,     with     an 

odor  of  ocean  about  him, 
Speaking   with   this   one   and   that,  and   cram- 
ming letters  and  parcels 
Into     his     pockets     capacious,     and     messages 

mingled  together 
Into    his    narrow    brain,    till    at    last    he    was 

wholly  bewildered. 
Nearer   the   boat   stood   Alden,  with    one    foot 
placed  on  the  gunwale, 


62     THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

One    still    firm    on    the    rock,    and    talking    at 

times  with  the  sailors, 
Seated    erect    on    the    thwarts,    all    ready    and 

eager  for  starting. 
He  too  was  eager  to  go,  and  thus  put  an  end 

to  his  anguish, 
Thinking  to  fly  from  despair,  that  swifter  than 

keel  is  or  canvas, 
Thinking  to  drown  in  the  sea  the  ghost   that 

would  rise  and  pursue  him. 
But  as  he  gazed  on  the  crowd,  he  beheld  the 

form  of  Priscilla 
Standing  dejected  among  them,  unconscious  of 

all  that  was  passing. 
Fixed    were    her    eyes    upon    his,    as    if    she 

divined  his  intention, 
Fixed    with    a    look    so    sad,    so    reproachful, 

imploring,  and  patient, 
That   with    a    sudden    revulsion    his    heart    re- 
coiled from  its  purpose, 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    63 

As  from   the  verge  of  a  crag,  where    one    step 

more  is  destruction. 
Strange  is   the    heart   of    man,  with    its   quick, 

mysterious  instincts ! 
Strange  is  the  life  of   man,  and  fatal  or  fated 

are  moments, 
Whereupon   turn,    as    on    hinges,   the   gates   of 

the  wall  adamantine ! 
"Here  I  remain!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  looked 

at  the  heavens  above  him, 
Thanking  the  Lord  whose  breath  had  scattered 

the  mist  and  the  madness, 
Wherein,    blind    and    lost,    to    death    he    was 

staggering  headlong. 
"Yonder   snow-white   cloud,  that   floats  in  the 

ether  above  me, 
Seems  like  a  hand  that  is  pointing  and  beck- 
oning over  the  ocean. 
There  is  another  hand,   that  is  not  so  spectral 

and  ghost-like. 


64    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH. 

Holding  me,   drawing   me   back,  and   clasping 

mine  for  protection. 
Float,    0  hand   of   cloud,   and  vanish   away  in 

the  ether! 
Roll    thyself   up    like   a   fist,    to   threaten    and 

daunt  me;  I  heed  not 
Either  your  warning  or  menace,   or  any  omen 

of  evil ! 
There    is   no    land   so   sacred,   no   air   so  pure 

and  so  wholesome, 
As  is  the  air  she  breathes,  and  the   soil   that 

is  pressed  by  her  footsteps. 
Here    for   her    sake    will    I    stay,  and    like    an 

invisible  presence 
Hover   around    her    for    ever,    protecting,    sup- 
porting her  weakness; 
Yes!  as  my  foot  was  the  first  that  stepped  on 

this  rock  at  the  landing, 
So,  with  the  blessing  of  God,   shall  it  be  the 

last  at  the  leaving ! " 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH    Q5 

Meanwhile   the   Master   alert,  but   with   dig- 
nified air  and  important, 
Scanning  with  watchful  eye    the   tide  and  the 

wind  and  the  weather, 
Walked   about  on   the   sands;    and   the   people 

crowded  around  him 
Saying    a    few    last   words,    and    enforcing    his 

careful  remembrance. 
Then,  taking  each  by  the  hand,  as  if  he  were 

grasping  a  tiller, 
Into  the  boat  he  sprang,  and  in  haste  shoved 

off  to  his  vessel, 
Glad  in  his  heart  to  get  rid  of   all  this  worry 

and   flurry, 
Glad  to   be   gone   from    a    land   of    sand    and 

sickness  and  sorrow, 
Short    allowance     of    victual,    and    plenty    of 

nothing  but  Gospel! 
Lost   in   the   sound   of    the    oars  was    the    last 

farewell  of  the  Pilgrims. 


66    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

O  strong  hearts  and  true!  not  one  went  back 

in  the  May  Flower! 
No,    not   one    looked   back,  who    had    set    his 

hand  to  this  ploughing! 

Soon  were   heard   on   board   the   shouts   and 

songs  of  the  sailors 
Heaving  the  windlass  round,  and  hoisting  the 

ponderous  anchor. 
Then  the  yards  were  braced,  and  all  sails  set 

to  the  west-wind, 
Blowing    steady    and    strong;     and     the     May 

Flower  sailed  from  the  harbor, 
Rounded  the  point  of  the  Gurnet,  and  leaving 

far  to  the  southward 
Island  and  cape  of  sand,  and  the  Field  of  the 

First  Encounter, 
Took  the  wind  on  her  quarter,  and  stood  for 

the  open  Atlantic, 
Borne  on  the  send  of  the  sea,  and  the  swell- 
ing hearts  of  the  Pilgrims. 


THE  COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    67 

Long  in  silence   they  watched   the  receding 

sail  of  the  vessel, 
Much    endeared    to    them    all,    as    something 

living  and  human; 
Then,   as  if   filled  with    the    spirit,    and  wrapt 

in  a  vision  prophetic, 
Baring  his  hoary  head,  the  excellent  Elder  of 

Plymouth 
Said,    "  Let   us   pray ! "   and   they   prayed,    and 

thanked  the  Lord  and  took  courage. 
Mournfully   sobbed   the   waves   at   the   base   of 

the  rock,  and  above  them 
Bowed  and  whispered  the  wheat  on  the  hill  of 

death,  and  their  kindred 
Seemed  to  awake  in  their  graves,  and  to  join 

in  the  prayer  that  they  uttered. 
Sun-illumined  and  white,  on  the  eastern  verge 

of  the  ocean 
Gleamed  the  departing  sail,  like  a  marble  slab 

in  a  graveyard; 


68    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH. 

Buried   beneath    it    lay   for   ever   all    hope    of 

escaping. 
Lo!    as   they   turned   to   depart,    they   saw   the 

form  of  an  Indian, 
Watching  them  from  the  hill;   but  while   they 

spake  with  each  other, 
Pointing  with  outstretched   hands,  and   saying, 

"  Look  !  "  he  had  vanished. 
So    they  returned    to    their   homes;    but   Alden 

lingered  a  little, 
Musing  alone   on  the  shore,  and  watching  the 

wash  of   the  billows 
Round  the  base  of  the  rock,  and   the    sparkle 

and  flash  of  the  sunshine, 
Like   the   spirit  of   God,   moving   visibly   over 

the  waters. 


VI. 

PRISCILLA. 

Thus  for  a  while  he  stood,  and  mused  by  the 

shore  of  the  ocean, 
Thinking  of  many  things,  and  most  of  all  of 

Priscilla; 
And   as   if    thought  had  the  power  to  draw  to 

itself,  like  the  loadstone, 
Whatsoever  it  touches,   by  subtile   laws  of   its 

nature, 
Lo!    as    he    turned    to    depart,    Priscilla   was 

standing  beside  him. 

"Are   you   so   much   offended,    you  will  not 
speak  to  me?"  said  she. 
"Am    I    so    much    to    blame,    that    yesterday, 
when  you  were  pleading 


70    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Warmly  the   cause   of   another,   my  heart,    im- 
pulsive and  wayward, 
Pleaded    your    own,    and    spake    out,    forgetful 

perhaps  of  decorum? 
Certainly  you   can  forgive  me   for  speaking  so 

frankly,   for  saying 
What  I  ought  not  to  have  said,  yet  now  I  can 

never  unsay  it; 
For  there  are  moments  in  life,  when  the  heart 

is  so  full  of  emotion, 
That    if   by  chance    it  be    shaken,  or    into    its 

depths  like  a  pebble 
Drops   some   careless   word,   it   overflows,    and 

its  secret, 
Spilt  on  the  ground  like  water,  can   never   be 

gathered  together. 
Yesterday  I  was   shocked,  when   I    heard   you 

speak  of  Miles  Standish, 
Praising    his    virtues,    transforming    his    very 

defects  into  virtues, 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH.    71 

Praising   his   courage    and   strength,   and   even 

his  righting  in  Flanders, 
As    if    by   righting    alone   you   could   win   the 

heart  of  a  woman, 
Quite    overlooking    yourself    and    the    rest,    in 

exalting  your  hero. 
Therefore  I  spake  as  I  did,  by  an  irresistible 

impulse. 
You  will    forgive  me,   I  hope,   for  the  sake  of 

the  friendship  between  us, 
Which    is   too    true    and   too   sacred  to   be   so 

easily  broken ! " 
Thereupon  answered   John  Alden,  the  scholar, 

the  friend  of  Miles  Standish: 
"I  was  not  angry  with  you,  with  myself  alone 

I  was  angry, 
Seeing  how  badly  I  managed  the  matter  I  had 

in  my  keeping." 
"No!"    interrupted   the    maiden,    with   answer 

prompt  and  decisive ; 


72    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

"No;   you  were   angry  with   me,   for   speaking 

so  frankly  and  freely. 
It   was   wrong,    I    acknowledge;    for   it   is   the 

fate  of  a  woman 
Long  to  be  patient  and  silent,  to  wait  like  a 

ghost  that  is  speechless, 
Till  some  questioning  voice  dissolves  the  spell 

of  its  silence. 
Hence   is  the  inner  life  of   so   many  suffering 

women 
Sunless  and  silent  and  deep,  like  subterranean 

rivers 
Running     through    caverns    of     darkness,    un- 
heard, unseen,  and  unfruitful, 
Charing  their   channels  of   stone,  with   endless 

and  profitless  murmurs." 
Thereupon    answered   John    Alden,    the    young 

man,  the  lover  of  women: 
"Heaven   forbid   it,    Priscilla;    and   truly  they 

seem  to  me  always 


THE   COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    73 

More  like  the  beautiful  rivers  that  watered  the 

garden  of  Eden, 
More  like  the  river  Euphrates,  through  deserts 

of   Havilah  flowing, 
Filling   the   land  with   delight,    and   memories 

sweet  of  the  garden ! " 
"Ah,  by  these  words,   I  can  see,"  again  inter- 
rupted the  maiden, 
"How  very  little    you    prize    me,    or    care    for 

what  I  am  saying. 
When   from    the    depths  of   my  heart,   in   pain 

and  with  secret  misgiving, 
Frankly  I   speak  to  you,  asking   for   sympathy 

only  and  kindness, 
Straightway   you    take   up    my   words,  that   are 

plain  and  direct  and  in  earnest, 
Turn    them    away    from    their    meaning,    and 

answer  with  flattering  phrases. 
This   is   not  right,   is  not  just,   is  not  true   to 

the  best  that  is  in  you; 


74    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH. 

For    I   know   and    esteem    you,  and    feel    that 
your  nature  is  noble, 

Lifting  mine  up  to  a  higher,  a  more  ethereal 
level. 

Therefore  I  value  your  friendship,  and  feel  it 
perhaps  the  more  keenly 

If   you   say  aught   that   implies    I   am   only   as 
one  among  many, 

If  you  make  use  of  those   common   and   com- 
plimentary phrases 

Most  men  think  so  fine,  in  dealing  and  speak- 
ing with  women, 

But  which  women  reject  as  insipid,  if  not  as 
insulting." 

Mute   and  amazed  was  Alden;   and  listened 

and  looked  at  Priscilla, 
Thinking   he   never   had    seen   her   more    fair, 

more  divine  in  her  beauty. 
He  who   but  yesterday   pleaded   so   glibly   the 

cause  of  another, 


THE  COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    75 

Stood  there  embarrassed  and  silent,  and  seek- 
ing in  vain  for  an  answer. 
So  the  maiden  went  on,  and  little  divined  or 

imagined 
What  was  at  work  in  his  heart,  that  made  him 

so  awkward  and  speechless. 
"Let    us,    then,    be   what   we    are,    and    speak 

what  we  think,  and  in  all  things 
Keep  ourselves  loyal  to  truth,  and  the   sacred 

professions  of  friendship. 
It  is  no  secret  I  tell  you,  nor  am  I  ashamed 

to  declare  it: 
I   have   liked   to   be  with  you,  to   see  you,   to 

speak  with  you  always. 
So    I    was    hurt    at    your    words,    and    a    little 

affronted  to  hear  you 
Urge  me  to  marry  your  friend,  though  he  were 

the  Captain  Miles  Standish. 
For  I  must  tell  you  the  truth:  much  more  to 

me  is  your  friendship 


76    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Than  all  the  love  he  could  give,  were  he 
twice  the  hero  you  think  him." 

Then  she  extended  her  hand,  and  Alden,  who 
eagerly  grasped  it, 

Felt  all  the  wounds  in  his  heart,  that  were 
aching  and  bleeding  so  sorely, 

Healed  by  the  touch  of  that  hand,  and  he 
said  with  a  voice  full  of  feeling: 

"Yes,  we  must  ever  be  friends;  and  of  all 
who  offer  you  friendship 

Let  me  be  ever  the  first,  the  truest,  the  near- 
est and  dearest ! " 

Casting   a   farewell   look   at   the   glimmering 

sail  of  the  May  Flower, 
Distant,   but  still  in  sight,  and  sinking  below 

the  horizon, 
Homeward     together     they     walked,     with     a 

strange,  indefinite  feeling, 
That  all  the  rest  had  departed  and  left  them 

alone  in  the  desert. 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAND1SH.    77 

But,  as   they  went   through   the    fields    in    the 

blessing  and  smile  of  the  sunshine, 
Lighter   grew   their   hearts,   and    Priscilla    said 

very  archly: 
"Now  that   our   terrible   Captain   has   gone    in 

pursuit  of  the  Indians, 
Where    he    is    happier    far   than   he   would   be 

commanding  a  household, 
You  may  speak  boldly,  and  tell  me  of  all  that 

happened  between  you, 
When  you  returned   last   night,  and   said   how 

ungrateful  you  found  me." 
Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  and  told  her 

the  whole  of  the  story,  — 
Told    her    his    own    despair,    and    the    direful 

wrath  of  Miles  Standish. 
Whereat  the  maiden  smiled,  and  said  between 

laughing  and  earnest, 
"He  is  a  little  chimney,  and  heated  hot  in  a 
moment !  " 


78    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH, 

But   as   he   gently   rebuked   her,    and   told   her 

how  much  he  had  suffered,  — 
How  he  had  even  determined  to  sail  that  day 

in  the  May  Flower, 
And   had   remained   for   her   sake,   on   hearing 

the  dangers  that  threatened,  — 
All    her   manner   was    changed,    and    she    said 

with  a  faltering  accent, 
"Truly   I    thank   you    for   this:    how  good   you 

have  been  to  me  always!" 


Thus,  as  a  pilgrim  devout,  who  toward  Jeru- 
salem journeys, 

Taking  three  steps  in  advance,  and  one  reluc- 
tantly backward, 

Urged  by  importunate  zeal,  and  withheld  by 
pangs  of  contrition; 

Slowly  but  steadily  onward,  receding  yet  ever 
advancing, 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    79 

Journeyed  this  Puritan  youth  to  the  Holy  Land 

of  his  longings, 
Urged  by  the  fervor  of  love,  and  withheld  by 

remorseful  misgivings. 


VII. 

THE   MARCH   OF   MILES   STANDISH. 

Meanwhile    the    stalwart    Miles    Standish    was 
marching  steadily  northward, 

Winding  through  forest  and  swamp,  and  along 
the  trend  of  the  sea-shore, 

All   day  long,   with   hardly  a  halt,   the   fire   of 
his  anger 

Burning    and    crackling   within,    and    the    sul- 
phurous odor  of  powder 

Seeming  more  sweet  to  his  nostrils  than  all  the 
scents  of  the  forest. 

Silent   and   moody  he  went,   and   much  he  re- 
volved his  discomfort; 

He  who  was  used  to  success,  and  to  easy  vic- 
tories always, 

80 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    81 

Thus  to  be  flouted,    rejected,   and   laughed   to 

scorn  by  a  maiden, 
Thus  to  be  mocked  and  betrayed  by  the  friend 

whom  most  he  had  trusted! 
Ah!    'twas    too    much   to    be    borne,    and    he 

fretted  and  chafed  in  his  armor! 

"I  alone  am  to  blame,"  he  muttered,  "for 

mine  was  the  folly. 
What    has    a    rough    old    soldier,    grown    grim 

and  gray  in  the  harness, 
Used   to   the   camp   and    its  ways,   to  do  with 

the  wooing  of  maidens? 
'T  was  but  a  dream,  —  let  it  pass,  —  let  it  van- 
ish like  so  many  others! 
What  I  thought  was  a  flower,   is  only  a  weed, 

and  is  worthless; 
Out  of  my  heart  will  I  pluck  it,  and  throw  it 

away,  and  henceforward 
Be  but  a  fighter  of  battles,  a  lover  and  wooer 

of  dangers! " 


82    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Thus  he  revolved  in  his  mind  his  sorry  defeat 

and  discomfort, 
While    he   was   marching   by    day    or    lying   at 

night  in   the   forest, 
Looking  up  at  the  trees,  and  the  constellations 

beyond  them. 

After    a   three    days'  march   he   came   to  an 

Indian  encampment 
Pitched   on   the   edge    of   a   meadow,  between 

the  sea  and  the  forest; 
Women   at  work    by   the    tents,    and   the   war- 
riors, horrid  with  war-paint, 
Seated  about  a  fire,  and  smoking  and  talking 

together; 
Who,    when    they    saw    from    afar    the   sudden 

approach  of  the  white  men, 
Saw  the    flash   of    the   sun   on   breastplate   and 

sabre  and  musket, 
Straightway  leaped  to  their  feet,  and  two,  from 

among  them  advancing, 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STANDISH.    83 

Came  to  parley  with   Standish,  and   offer   him 

furs  as  a  present; 
Friendship   was    in    their    looks,    but    in    their 

hearts  there  was  hatred. 
Braves  of    the    tribe  were    these,    and   brothers 

gigantic  in  stature, 
Huge  as  Goliath  of   Gath,  or  the  terrible  Og, 

king  of  Bashan; 
One  was   Pecksuot   named,  and   the  other  was 

called  Wattawamat. 
Round  their  necks  were  suspended  their  knives 

in  scabbards  of  wampum, 
Two-edged,    trenchant   knives,    with   points   as 

sharp  as  a  needle. 
Other  arms  had  they  none,  for  they  were  cun- 
ning and  crafty. 
"Welcome,  English!"  they  said, —these  words 

they  had  learned  from  the  traders 
Touching  at  times  on  the  coast,  to  barter  and 

chaffer  for  peltries. 


84    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Then    in    their    native    tongue    they    began    to 

parley  with  Standish, 
Through  his  guide  and  interpreter,  Hobomok, 

friend  of  the  white  man, 
Begging   for   blankets   and   knives,    but   mostly 

for  muskets  and  powder, 
Kept  by  the  white  man,  they  said,  concealed, 

with  the  plague,   in  his  cellars, 
Ready  to  be  let  loose,  and  destroy  his  brother 

the  red  man! 
But  when  Standish  refused,  and  said  he  would 

give  them  the  Bible, 
Suddenly  changing   their   tone,    they   began   to 

boast  and  to  bluster. 
Then   Wattawamat    advanced  with   a   stride    in 

front  of  the  other, 
And,   with    a    lofty    demeanor,    thus   vauntingly 

spake  to  the  Captain : 
"Now  Wattawamat   can   see,  by  the   fiery  eyes 

of  the  Captain, 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    85 

Angry  is  he  in  his  heart;  but  the  heart  of  the 

brave  Wattawamat 
Is  not  afraid  at  the   sight.     He  was  not  born 

of  a  woman, 
But   on   a   mountain,   at   night,    from   an   oak- 
tree  riven  by  lightning, 
Forth    he    sprang    at    a    bound,    with    all    his 

weapons  about  him, 
Shouting,    'Who    is    there    here    to   fight   with 

the  brave  Wattawamat?  '  " 
Then   he   unsheathed   his  knife,  and,   whetting 

the  blade  on  his  left  hand, 
Held   it   aloft   and   displayed   a  woman's   face 

on  the  handle, 
Saying,    with    bitter    expression    and    look    of 

sinister  meaning: 
"I  have  another  at  home,  with  the  face  of   a 

man  on  the  handle; 
By  and  by  they  shall  marry;  and  there  will  be 

plenty  of  children!" 


86    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Then    stood    Pecksuot    forth,     self-vaunting, 

insulting  Miles  Standish: 
While  with  his  fingers  he  patted  the  knife  that 

hung  at  his  bosom, 
Drawing  it  half  from  its  sheath,  and  plunging 

it  back,  as  he  muttered, 
"By  and  by  it  shall  see;   it  shall  eat;   ah,  ha! 

but  shall  speak  not! 
This    is    the    mighty   Captain    the    white    men 

have  sent  to  destroy  us! 
He  is  a  little  man;  let  him  go  and  work  with 

the  women! " 

Meanwhile  Standish  had  noted  the  faces  and 

figures  of  Indians 
Peeping  and  creeping  about  from  bush  to  tree 

in  the  forest, 
Feigning  to  look  for  game,  with  arrows  set  on 

their  bow-strings, 
Drawing  about  him  still  closer  and  closer  the 

net  of  their  ambush. 


THE  COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STANDISH.    87 

But  undaunted  he  stood,  and   dissembled   and 

treated  them  smoothly; 
So   the   old   chronicles   say,   that  were  writ   in 

the  days  of  the  fathers. 
But  when  he  heard   their   defiance,  the   boast, 

the  taunt,  and  the  insult, 
All    the    hot   blood  of    his    race,  of    Sir    Hugh 

and  of  Thurston  de  Standish, 
Boiled   and  beat  in  his  heart,  and  swelled  in 

the  veins  of  his  temples. 
Headlong    he    leaped     on     the    boaster,    and, 

snatching  his  knife  from  its  scabbard, 
Plunged   it   into   his   heart,   and,   reeling   back- 
ward, the  savage 
Fell  with  his  face  to  the  sky,  and  a  fiendlike 

fierceness  upon  it. 
Straight  there  arose   from  the  forest  the  awful 

sound  of  the  war-whoop, 
And,   like    a    flurry  of    snow    on    the    whistling 

wind  of  December, 


88    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Swift   and    sudden   and   keen  came  a  flight  of 

feathery  arrows. 
Then  came  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  out  of  the 

cloud  came  the  lightning, 
Out    of     the    lightning    thunder;     and     death 

unseen  ran  before  it. 
Frightened     the     savages    fled    for    shelter    in 

swamp  and  in  thicket, 
Hotly  pursued    and   beset;    but    their    sachem, 

the  brave  Wattawamat, 
Fled  not;  he  was  dead.     Unswerving  and  swift 

had  a  bullet 
Passed    through    his    brain,    and    he    fell   with 

both  hands  clutching  the  greensward, 
Seeming  in  death   to  hold  back  from  his  foe 

the  land  of  his  fathers. 

There    on    the    flowers   of    the   meadow   the 
warriors  lay,  and  above  them, 
Silent,    with    folded    arms,     stood     Hobomok, 
friend  of  the  white  man. 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    89 

Smiling  at  length  he  exclaimed  to  the  stalwart 
Captain  of  Plymouth: 

"Pecksuot  bragged  very  loud,  of  his  courage, 
his  strength,   and  his  stature,— 

Mocked  the  great  Captain,  and  called  him  a 
little  man;  but  I  see  now 

Big  enough  have  you  been  to  lay  him  speech- 
less before  you!" 

Thus  the  first  battle  was  fought  and  won  by 

the  stalwart  Miles  Standish. 
When  the  tidings  thereof  were  brought  to  the 

village  of  Plymouth, 
And  as  a  trophy  of  war  the  head  of  the  brave 

Wattawamat 
Scowled  from  the   roof   of   the    fort,   which   at 

once  was  a  church  and  a  fortress, 
All  who   beheld   it   rejoiced,    and   praised  the 

Lord,  and  took  courage. 
Only    Priscilla     averted     her     face    from    this 

spectre  of  terror, 


90     THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STAN  DISH. 

Thanking  God   in  her  heart  that   she   had   not 

married  Miles  Standish; 
Shrinking,    fearing   almost,    lest,    coming   home 

from  his  battles, 
He  should  lay  claim  to  her  hand,  as  the  prize 

and  reward  of  his  valor. 


VIII. 

THE   SPINNING-WHEEL. 

Month     after     month    passed    away,     and     in 
Autumn  the  ships  of  the  merchants 

Came    with   kindred   and    friends,    with    cattle 
and  corn  for  the  Pilgrims. 

All    in    the  village  was    peace;    the    men    were 
intent  on  their  labors, 

Busy  with  hewing  and   building,  with   garden- 
plot  and  with  merestead, 

Busy  with  breaking  the  glebe,  and  mowing  the 
grass  in  the  meadows, 

Searching  the  sea  for  its  fish,  and  hunting  the 
deer  in  the  forest. 

All  in  the  village  was  peace;  but  at  times  the 
rumor  of  warfare 

91 


92    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Filled  the  air  with  alarm,  and  the  apprehen- 
sion of  danger. 

Bravely  the  stalwart  Miles  Standi sh  was  scour- 
ing the  land  with  his  forces, 

Waxing  valiant  in  fight  and  defeating  the  alien 
armies, 

Till  his  name  had  become  a  sound  of  fear  to 
the  nations. 

Anger  was  still  in  his  heart,  but  at  times  the 
remorse  and  contrition 

Which  in  all  noble  natures  succeed  the  pas- 
sionate outbreak, 

Came  like  a  rising  tide,  that  encounters  the 
rush  of  a  river, 

Staying  its  current  awhile,  but  making  it  bitter 
and  brackish. 


Meanwhile  Alden  at  home  had  built   him   a 
new  habitation, 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAND1SH.   93 

Solid,   substantial,   of   timber   rough-hewn    from 

the  firs  of  the  forest. 
Wooden-barred    was    the    door,    and    the    roof 

was  covered  with  rushes; 
Latticed   the   windows  were,   and   the  window- 
panes  were  of  paper, 
Oiled  to  admit  the  light,  while  wind  and  rain 

were  excluded. 
There     too    he    dug    a    well,    and    around     it 

planted  an  orchard: 
Still  may  be  seen    to   this    day  some    trace    of 

the  well  and  the  orchard. 
Close  to  the   house  was   the    stall,  where,  safe 

and  secure  from  annoyance, 
Raghorn,  the  snow-white  steer,  that  had  fallen 

to  Alden's  allotment 
In  the   division  of    cattle,  might   ruminate    in 

the  night-time 
Over   the   pastures   he  cropped,  made   fragrant 
by  sweet  pennyroyal. 


94    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH. 

Oft  when  his  labor  was  finished,  with  eager 
feet  would  the  dreamer 

Follow  the  pathway  that  ran  through  the 
woods  to  the  house  of  Priscilla, 

Led  by  illusions  romantic  and  subtile  decep- 
tions of  fancy, 

Pleasure  disguised  as  duty,  and  love  in  the 
semblance  of  friendship. 

Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  fashioned 
the  walls  of  his  dwelling; 

Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  delved  in  the 
soil  of  his  garden; 

Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  read  in  his 
Bible  on  Sunday 

Praise  of  the  virtuous  woman,  as  she  is  de- 
scribed in  the  Proverbs,  — 

How  the  heart  of  her  husband  doth  safely 
trust  in  her  always, 

How  all  the  days  of  her  life  she  will  do  him 
good,  and  not  evil, 


THE   COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    95 

How  she   seeketh   the  wool   and    the   flax   and 

worketh  with  gladness, 
How  she  layeth  her  hand  to  the   spindle   and 

holdeth  the  distaff, 
How  she  is  not  afraid  of  the  snow  for  herself 

or  her  household, 
Knowing   her   household   are   clothed  with   the 

scarlet  cloth  of  her  weaving! 

So  as  she  sat  at  her  wheel  one  afternoon  in 
the  Autumn, 

Alden,  who  opposite  sat,  and  was  watching 
her  dexterous  fingers, 

As  if  the  thread  she  was  spinning  were  that  of 
his  life  and  his  fortune, 

After  a  pause  in  their  talk,  thus  spake  to  the 
sound  of  the  spindle. 

"Truly,  Priscilla,"  he  said,  "when  I  see  you 
spinning  and  spinning, 

Never  idle  a  moment,  but  thrifty  and  thought- 
ful of  others, 


96    THE   COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Suddenly    you     are     transformed,     are    visibly 

changed  in  a  moment; 
You    are    no   longer   Priscilla,    but    Bertha    the 

Beautiful  Spinner." 
Here  the  light  foot  on  the  treadle  grew  swifter 

and  swifter;   the  spindle 
Uttered     an     angry     snarl,     and     the     thread 

snapped  short  in  her  fingers; 
While  the  impetuous  speaker,   not  heeding  the 

mischief,   continued : 
"You    are    the    beautiful    Bertha,    the    spinner, 

the  queen  of  Helvetia; 
She  whose  story  I  read  at  a  stall  in  the  streets 

of  Southampton, 
Who,   as  she  rode  on  her  palfrey,   o'er  valley 

and  meadow  and  mountain, 
Ever  was   spinning   her   thread   from   a   distaff 

fixed  to  her  saddle. 
She   was   so   thrifty  and   good,  that   her   name 

passed  into  a  proverb. 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.    97 

So  shall  it  be  with  your  own,  when  the  spin- 
ning-wheel shall  no  longer 

Hum   in   the  house  of  the  farmer,  and  fill  its 
chambers  with  music. 

Then  shall  the  mothers,  reproving,  relate  how 
it  was  in  their  childhood, 

Praising  the  good  old   times,  and  the  days  of 
Priscilla  the  spinner!" 

Straight   uprose    from   her  wheel   the   beautiful 
Puritan  maiden, 

Pleased  with  the  praise  of  her  thrift  from  him 
whose  praise  was  the  sweetest, 

Drew  from  the  reel  on  the  table  a  snowy  skein 
of  her  spinning, 

Thus  making  answer,  meanwhile,  to  the  flatter- 
ing phrases  of  Alden: 

"Come,  you  must  not  be  idle;  if  I  am  a  pat- 
tern for  housewives, 

Show    yourself    equally    worthy    of    being    the 
model  of  husbands. 


98    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Hold  this  skein  on  your  hands,  while  I  wind 
it,  ready  for  knitting; 

Then  who  knows  but  hereafter,  when  fashions 
have  changed  and  the  manners, 

Fathers  may  talk  to  their  sons  of  the  good  old 
times  of  John  Alden!" 

Thus,  with  a  jest  and  a  laugh,  the  skein  on 
his  hands  she  adjusted, 

He  sitting  awkwardly  there,  with  his  arms  ex- 
tended before  him, 

She  standing  graceful,  erect,  and  winding  the 
thread  from  his  fingers, 

Sometimes  chiding  a  little  his  clumsy  manner 
of  holding, 

Sometimes  touching  his  hands,  as  she  disen- 
tangled expertly 

Twist  or  knot  in  the  yarn,  unawares  —  for  how 
could  she  help  it?  — 

Sending  electrical  thrills  through  every  nerve 
in  his  body. 


THE   COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH.    99 

Lo!  in  the  midst  of  this  scene,  a  breathless 
messenger  entered, 
Bringing  in  hurry  and  heat  the   terrible   news 

from  the  village. 
Yes;    Miles    Standish   was    dead!  — an    Indian 

had  brought  them  the  tidings,  — 
Slain  by  a  poisoned  arrow,   shot  down   in  the 

front  of  the  battle, 
Into    an    ambush    beguiled,    cut    off    with    the 

whole  of  his  forces; 
All    the    town   would    be    burned,  and    all    the 

people  be  murdered! 
Such  were  the  tidings  of  evil  that  burst  on  the 

hearts  of  the  hearers. 
Silent  and  statue-like  stood  Priscilla,  her  face 

looking  backward 
Still  at  the  face  of  the  speaker,  her  arms  up- 
lifted in  horror; 
But  John  Alden,  upstarting,  as  if  the  barb  of 
the  arrow 


100      THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH. 

Piercing  the  heart  of  his  friend  had  struck  his 

own,  and  had  sundered 
Once   and   for   ever   the   bonds   that  held  him 

bound  as  a  captive, 
While  with  excess  of  sensation,  the  awful  de- 
light of  his  freedom, 
Mingled  with  pain  and  regret,  unconscious  of 

what  he  was  doing, 
Clasped,   almost  with   a  groan,   the  motionless 

form  of  Priscilla, 
Pressing  her  close  to  his  heart,  as  for  ever  his 

own,   and  exclaiming: 
"Those    whom    the    Lord   hath   united,  let   no 

man  put  them  asunder !  " 

Even    as    rivulets    twain,    from    distant    and 

separate  sources, 
Seeing  each  other  afar,  as  they  leap  from  the 

rocks,  and  pursuing 
Each  one  its  devious  path,  but  drawing  nearer 

and  nearer, 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.     101 

Rush  together  at  last,  at  their  trysting-place  in 
the   forest; 

So  these  lives  that  had  run  thus  far  in  sepa- 
rate channels, 

Coming  in  sight  of  each  other,  then  swerving 
and  flowing  asunder, 

Parted  by  barriers  strong,  but  drawing  nearer 
and  nearer, 

Rushed  together  at  last,  and  one  was  lost  in  the 
other. 


IX. 


THE   WEDDING-DAY. 


Forth   from   the   curtain   of   clouds,   from   the 

tent  of  purple  and  scarlet, 
Issued   the   sun,   the   great  High-Priest,   in  his 

garments  resplendent, 
Holiness  unto  the  Lord,   in  letters  of  light,  on 

his  forehead, 
Round  the  hem  of   his  robe  the   golden   bells 

and  pomegranates. 
Blessing   the  world  he  came,  and   the   bars   of 

vapor  beneath  him 
Gleamed  like  a  grate  of  brass,  and  the  sea  at 

his  feet  was  a  laver! 
102 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STAN  DISH.     103 

This  was  the  wedding  morn  of  Priscilla  the 

Puritan  maiden. 
Friends    were    assembled    together;    the    Elder 

and  Magistrate  also 
Graced    the    scene   with    their   presence,    and 

stood  like  the  Law  and  the  Gospel, 
One  with  the  sanction  of  earth  and  one  with 

the  blessing  of  heaven. 
Simple  and  brief  was  the  wedding,  as  that  of 

Ruth  and  of  Boaz. 
Softly  the  youth  and  the  maiden  repeated  the 

words  of  betrothal, 
Taking  each  other  for  husband  and  wife  in  the 

Magistrate's  presence, 
After  the  Puritan  way,  and   the    laudable   cus- 
tom of  Holland. 
Fervently    then,    and    devoutly,    the    excellent 

Elder  of  Plymouth 
Prayed  for  the  hearth  and  the  home,  that  were 

founded  that  day  in  affection, 


104       THE   COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH. 

Speaking  of  life  and  of  death,  and  imploring 
divine  benedictions. 

Lo!  when  the  service  was  ended,  a  form 
appeared  on  the  threshold, 

Clad  in  armor  of  steel,  a  sombre  and  sor- 
rowful figure ! 

Why  does  the  bridegroom  start  and  stare  at 
the  strange  apparition? 

Why  does  the  bride  turn  pale,  and  hide  her 
face  on  his  shoulder? 

Is  it  a  phantom  of  air,  —  a  bodiless,  spectral 
illusion? 

Is  it  a  ghost  from  the  grave,  that  has  come  to 
forbid  the  betrothal? 

Long  had  it  stood  there  unseen,  a  guest  unin- 
vited,  unwelcomed; 

Over  its  clouded  eyes  there  had  passed  at 
times  an  expression 

Softening  the  gloom  and  revealing  the  warm 
heart  hidden  beneath  them, 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.     105 

As   when   across   the    sky   the    driving   rack   of 

the  rain-cloud 
Grows  for  a  moment  thin,  and  betrays  the  sun 

by  its  brightness. 
Once    it   had   lifted    its   hand,    and   moved    its 

lips,  but  was  silent, 
As  if   an  iron  will   had   mastered   the   fleeting 

intention. 
But  when  were  ended  the  troth  and  the  prayer 

and  the  last  benediction, 
Into  the  room  it  strode,  and  the  people  beheld 

with  amazement 
Bodily  there  in  his  armor  Miles  Standish,  the 

Captain  of  Plymouth ! 
Grasping  the  bridegroom's  hand,  he  said  with 

emotion,   "  Forgive  me  ! 
I  have  been  angry  and  hurt,  —  too  long  have  I 

cherished  the  feeling; 
I  have   been   cruel   and   hard,  but  now,    thank 

God !    it  is  ended. 


106      THE   COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH 

Mine  is  the  same  hot  blood  that  leaped  in  the 

veins  of  Hugh  Standish, 
Sensitive,  swift  to  resent,  but  as  swift  in  aton- 
ing for  error. 
Never  so  much  as  now  was  Miles  Standish  the 

friend  of  John  Alden." 
Thereupon  answered  the  bridegroom :   "  Let  all 

be  forgotten  between  us,  — 
All    save    the   dear,    old    friendship,    and    that 

shall  grow  older  and  dearer!" 
Then    the    Captain     advanced,    and,    bowing, 

saluted  Priscilla, 
Gravely,  and  after  the  manner  of  old-fashioned 

gentry  in  England, 
Something  of  camp  and  of  court,  of  town  and 

of  country,   commingled, 
Wishing   her   joy  of    her  wedding,  and   loudly 

lauding  her  husband. 
Then   he    said   with  a  smile:    "I    should  have 

remembered  the  adage,  — 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STANDISH.     107 

If  you  would  be  well  served,   you   must  serve 

yourself;  and  moreover, 
No   man   can   gather   cherries   in   Kent  at  the 

season  of  Christmas  !  " 

Great    was     the    people's     amazement,    and 

greater  yet  their  rejoicing, 
Thus  to  behold  once  more   the  sun-burnt  face 

of  their  Captain, 
Whom  they  had   mourned  as   dead;   and   they 

gathered  and  crowded  about  him, 
Eager  to  see  him  and   hear  him,   forgetful  of 

bride  and  of  bridegroom, 
Questioning,    answering,    laughing,     and    each 

interrupting  the  other, 
Till    the   good    Captain   declared,  being    quite 

overpowered  and  bewildered, 
He   had  rather  by   far   break   into    an    Indian 

encampment, 
Than   come   again   to  a  wedding  to  which  he 

had  not  been  invited. 


108      THE   COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH. 

Meanwhile    the   bridegroom  went    forth    and 

stood  with  the  bride  at  the  doorway, 
Breathing  the  perfumed   air  of   that  warm  and 

beautiful  morning. 
Touched  with   autumnal   tints,   but   lonely  and 

sad  in  the  sunshine, 
Lay    extended    before    them    the    land  of   toil 

and    privation; 
There   were   the   graves  of    the   dead,  and   the 

barren  waste  of  the  sea-shore, 
There  the  familiar  fields,   the  groves  of   pine, 

and  the  meadows; 
But  to  their  eyes  transfigured,  it  seemed  as  the 

Garden  of  Eden, 
Filled  with  the  presence  of  God,  whose  voice 

was  the  sound  of  the  ocean. 

Soon  was  their  vision  disturbed  by  the  noise 
and  stir  of  departure, 
Friends  coming  forth  from  the  house,  and  im- 
patient of  longer  delaying, 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  ST  AN  DISH.     109 

Each  with  his  plan  for  the  day,  and  the  work 

that  was  left  uncompleted. 
Then  from  a  stall  near  at  hand,   amid   excla- 
mations of  wonder, 
Alden   the   thoughtful,    the   careful,    so   happy, 

so  proud  of  Priscilla, 
Brought  out  his  snow-white  steer,  obeying  the 

hand  of  its  master, 
Led  by  a  cord  that  was  tied  to  an  iron  ring 

in  its  nostrils, 
Covered   with    crimson   cloth,    and    a    cushion 

placed  for  a  saddle. 
She    should    not    walk,    he    said,    through    the 

dust  and  heat  of  the  noonday; 
Nay,  she   should   ride   like  a  queen,  not   plod 

along  like  a  peasant. 
Somewhat   alarmed   at   first,    but   reassured    by 

the  others, 
Placing  her  hand  on  the  cushion,  her  foot  in 

the  hand  of  her   husband, 


110      THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH. 

Gayly,    with    joyous    laugh,    Priscilla    mounted 

her  palfrey. 
"Nothing    is    wanting    now,"    he    said    with   a 

smile,   "but  the  distaff; 
Then   you   would   be    in   truth   my   queen,    my 

beautiful  Bertha!" 

Onward  the  bridal  procession  now  moved  to 
their  new  habitation, 

Happy  husband  and  wife,  and  friends  convers- 
ing together. 

Pleasantly  murmured  the  brook,  as  they 
crossed  the  ford  in  the  forest, 

Pleased  with  the  image  that  passed,  like  a 
dream  of  love  through  its  bosom, 

Tremulous,  floating  in  air,  o'er  the  depths  of 
the  azure  abysses. 

Down  through  the  golden  leaves  the  sun  was 
pouring  his  splendors, 


THE  COURTSHIP   OF  MILES  STANDISH.     Ill 

Gleaming      on      purple      grapes,     that,      from 
branches  above  them  suspended, 

Mingled   their   odorous   breath   with   the   balm 
of  the  pine  and  the   fir-tree, 

Wild   and   sweet   as   the   clusters   that   grew  in 
the  valley  of  Eshcol. 

Like    a   picture    it    seemed    of    the    primitive, 
pastoral  ages, 

Fresh  with  the  youth  of  the  world,  and  recall- 
ing Rebecca  and  Isaac, 

Old  and  yet  ever  new,  and  simple  and  beauti- 
ful always, 

Love  immortal  and  young  in  the  endless  suc- 
cession of  lovers. 

So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  passed  onward 
the  bridal  procession. 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE. 

.   .   .   come  i  gru  van  cantando  lor  lai, 
Facendo  in  aer  di  se  lunga  riga. 

Dante. 


PROMETHEUS, 

OR   THE    POET'S    FORETHOUGHT. 

Of  Prometheus,   how  undaunted 
On  Olympus'  shining  bastions 
His  audacious  foot  he  planted, 
Myths  are  told  and  songs  are  chaunted, 
Full  of  promptings  and  suggestions. 

Beautiful  is  the  tradition 

Of  that  flight  through  heavenly  portals, 
The  old  classic  superstition 
Of  the  theft  and  the  transmission 

Of  the  fire  of  the  Immortals! 

First  the  deed  of  noble  daring, 
Born  of  heavenward  aspiration, 
115 


116  PROMETHEUS. 

Then  the  fire  with  mortals  sharing, 

Then  the  vulture,  —  the  despairing 

Cry  of  pain  on  crags  Caucasian. 

All  is  but  a  symbol  painted 

Of  the  Poet,   Prophet,  Seer; 
Only  those  are  crowned  and  sainted 
Who  with  grief  have  been  acquainted, 

Making  nations  nobler,  freer. 

In  their  feverish  exultations, 

In  their  triumph  and  their  yearning, 
In  their  passionate  pulsations, 
In  their  words  among  the  nations, 
The  Promethean  fire  is  burning. 

Shall  it,  then,  be  unavailing, 

All  this  toil  for  human  culture? 
Through  the  cloud-rack,   dark  and  trailing, 
Must  they  see  above  them  sailing 
O'er  life's  barren  crags  the  vulture? 


PROMETHEUS.  117 

Such  a  fate  as  this  was  Dante's, 

By  defeat  and  exile  maddened; 
Thus  were  Milton  and  Cervantes, 
Nature's  priests  and  Corybantes, 

By  affliction  touched  and  saddened. 

But  the  glories  so  transcendent 

That  around  their  memories  cluster, 
And,   on  all  their  steps  attendant, 
Make  their  darkened  lives  resplendent 
With  such  gleams  of  inward  lustre! 

All  the  melodies  mysterious, 

Through  the  dreary  darkness  chaunted; 
Thoughts  in  attitudes  imperious, 
Voices  soft,  and  deep,  and  serious, 

Words  that  whispered,  songs  that  haunted  J 

All  the  soul  in  rapt  suspension, 
All  the  quivering,  palpitating 


118  PROMETHEUS. 

Chords  of  life  in  utmost  tension, 
With  the  fervor  of  invention, 
With  the  rapture  of  creating! 

Ah,  Prometheus!   heaven-scaling! 

In  such  hours  of  exultation 
Even  the  faintest  heart,  unquailing, 
Might  behold  the  vulture  sailing 

Round  the  cloudy  crags  Caucasian! 

Though  to  all  there  is  not  given 

Strength  for  such  sublime  endeavor, 
Thus  to  scale  the  walls  of  heaven, 
And  to  leaven  with  fiery  leaven 
All  the  hearts  of  men  for  ever; 

Yet  all  bards,  whose  hearts  unblighted 

Honor  and  believe  the  presage, 
Hold  aloft  their  torches  lighted, 
Gleaming  through  the  realms  benighted, 
As  they  onward  bear  the  message! 


THE    LADDER   OF   ST.    AUGUSTINE. 

Saint  Augustine!   well  hast  thou  said, 
That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 

A  ladder,   if  we  will  but  tread 

Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame ! 

All  common  things,  each  day's  events, 
That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end, 

Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents, 
Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend. 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design, 
That  makes  another's  virtues  less; 

The  revel  of  the  ruddy  wine, 
And  all  occasions  of  excess; 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things; 

The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  truth; 
119 


120       THE  LADDER   OF  ST.   AUGUSTINE. 

The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 
Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth; 

All  thoughts  of  ill;    all  evil  deeds, 

That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of  ill; 

Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 
The  action  of  the  nobler  will;  — 

All  these  must  first  be  trampled  down 
Beneath  our  feet,   if  we  would  gain 

In  the  bright  fields  of  fair  renown 
The  right  of  eminent  domain. 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar; 

But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb 
By  slow  degrees,  by  more  and  more, 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 

That  wedge-like  cleave  the  desert  airs, 


THE  LADDER   OF  ST.   AUGUSTINE.      121 

When  nearer  seen,  and  better  known, 
Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uprear 
Their  solid  bastions  to  the  skies, 

Are  crossed  by  pathways,  that  appear 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 

The  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept 
Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight, 

But  they,   while  their  companions  slept, 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore 

With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast  eyes, 

We  may  discern  —  unseen  before  — 
A  path  to  higher  destinies. 

Nor  deem  the  irrevocable  Past, 

As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 
If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last 

To  something  nobler  we  attain. 


THE   PHANTOM    SHIP. 

In  Mather's  Magnalia  Christi, 

Of  the  old  colonial  time, 
May  be  found  in  prose  the  legend 

That  is  here  set  down  in  rhyme. 

A  ship  sailed  from  New  Haven, 
And  the  keen  and  frosty  airs, 

That  filled  her  sails  at  parting, 

Were  heavy  with  good  men's  prayers. 

"O  Lord!  if  it  be  thy  pleasure"  — 
Thus  prayed  the  old  divine  — 

"To  bury  our  friends  in  the  ocean, 
Take  them,   for  they  are  thine ! " 

But  Master  Lamberton  muttered, 
And  under  his  breath  said  he, 
122 


THE  PHANTOM  SHIP.  123 

"This  ship  is  so  crank  and  walty 
I  fear  our  grave  she  will  be ! " 

And  the  ships  that  came  from  England 
When  the  winter  months  were  gone, 

Brought  no  tidings  of   this  vessel 
Nor  of  Master  Lamberton. 

This  put  the  people  to  praying 

That  the  Lord  would   let  them   hear 

What  in  his  greater  wisdom 

He  had  done  with  friends  so  dear. 

And  at  last  their  prayers  were  answered:  — 

It  was  in  the  month  of  June, 
An  hour  before  the  sunset 

Of  a  windy  afternoon, 

When,   steadily  steering  landward, 
A  ship  was  seen  below, 


124  THE  PHANTOM  SHIP. 

And  they  knew  it  was  Lamberton,  Master. 
Who  sailed  so  long  ago. 

On  she  came,  with  a  cloud  of  canvas, 
Right  against  the  wind  that  blew, 

Until  the  eye  could  distinguish 
The  faces  of  the  crew. 

Then  fell  her  straining  topmasts, 
Hanging  tangled  in  the  shrouds, 

And  her  sails  were  loosened  and  lifted, 
And  blown  away  like  clouds. 

And  the  masts,  with  all  their  rigging, 

Fell  slowly,   one  by  one, 
And  the  hulk  dilated  and  vanished, 

As  a  sea-mist  in  the  sun! 

And  the  people  who  saw  this  marvel 
Each  said  unto  his  friend, 


THE  PHANTOM  SHIP.  125 

That  this  was  the  mould  of  their  vessel, 
And  thus  her  tragic  end. 

And  the  pastor  of  the  village 
Gave  thanks  to  God  in  prayer, 

That,  to  quiet  their  troubled  spirits, 
He  had  sent  this  Ship  of  Air. 


THE   WARDEN    OF   THE   CINQUE 
PORTS. 

A  mist  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel, 

The  day-  was  just  begun, 
And   through   the  window-panes,  on   floor   and 
panel, 

Streamed  the  red  autumn  sun. 

It  glanced  on  flowing  flag  and  rippling  pennon, 

And  the  white  sails  of  ships; 
And,    from    the    frowning    rampart,    the    black 
cannon 

Hailed  it  with  feverish  lips. 

Sandwich   and    Romney,   Hastings,  Hithe,  and 
Dover 
Were  all  alert  that  day, 
126 


THE   WARDEN  OF   THE  CINQUE  PORTS.      127 

To     see     the     French     war-steamers    speeding 
over, 
When   the    fog   cleared   away. 

Sullen  and  silent,  and  like  couchant  lions, 
Their  cannon,  through  the  night, 

Holding    their   breath,    had   watched,    in    grim 
defiance, 
The  sea-coast  opposite. 

And  now  they  roared  at  drum-beat  from  their 
stations 

On  every  citadel; 
Each  answering  each,  with  morning  salutations, 

That  all  was  well. 

And  down  the  coast,  all  taking  up  the  burden, 

Replied  the  distant  forts, 
As  if  to  summon  from  his  sleep  the  Warden 

And  Lord  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 


128       THE   WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS. 

Him  shall  no  sunshine  from  the  fields  of  azure, 

No  drum- beat  from  the  wall, 
No    morning   gun    from    the    black    fort's    em- 
brasure, 

Awaken  with  its  call! 

No  more,  surveying  with  an  eye  impartial 

The  long  line  of  the  coast, 
Shall  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  old  Field  Marshal 

Be  seen  upon  his  post! 

For  in  the  night,  unseen,  a  single  warrior, 

In  sombre  harness  mailed, 
Dreaded  of  man,  and  surnamed  the  Destroyer, 

The  rampart  wall  has  scaled. 

He  passed  into  the  chamber  of  the  sleeper, 

The  dark  and  silent  room, 
And  as  he  entered,  darker  grew,  and  deeper, 

The  silence  and  the  doom. 


THE   WARDEN  OF   THE  CINQUE  PORTS.      129 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley  or  dissemble, 

But  smote  the  Warden  hoar; 
Ah!    what    a    blow!    that    made    all    England 
tremble 

And  groan  from  shore  to  shore. 

Meanwhile,  without,  the  surly  cannon  waited, 

The  sun  rose  bright  o'erhead; 
Nothing  in  Nature's  aspect  intimated 

That  a  great  man  was  dead. 


HAUNTED   HOUSES. 

All  houses  wherein  men  have  lived  and  died 
Are  haunted  houses.    Through  the  open  doors 

The  harmless  phantoms  on  their  errands  glide, 
With  feet  that  make  no  sound  upon  the 
floors. 

We  meet  them  at  the  door-way,  on  the  stair, 
Along  the  passages  they  come  and  go, 

Impalpable  impressions  on  the  air, 

A  sense  of  something  moving  to  and  fro. 

There  are  more  guests  at  table,  than  the  hosts 

Invited;  the  illuminated  hall 
Is  thronged  with  quiet,   inoffensive  ghosts, 

As  silent  as  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 
130 


HAUNTED  HOUSES.  i3j 

The  stranger  at  my  fireside  cannot  see 

The  forms  I  see,  nor  hear  the  sounds  I  hear; 

He  but  perceives  what  is;    while  unto  me 
All  that  has  been  is  visible  and  clear. 

We  have  no  title-deeds  to  house  or  lands; 

Owners  and  occupants  of  earlier  dates 
From     graves     forgotten     stretch     their    dusty 
hands, 

And  hold  in  mortmain  still  their  old  estates. 

The  spirit-world  around  this  world  of  sense 
Floats  like  an  atmosphere,  and  everywhere 

Wafts  through    these  earthly  mists  and  vapors 
dense 
A  vital  breath  of  more  ethereal  air. 

Our  little  lives  are  kept  in  equipoise 
By  opposite  attractions  and  desires; 

The  struggle  of  the  instinct  that  enjoys, 
And  the  more  noble  instinct  that  aspires. 


132  HAUNTED  HOUSES. 

These  perturbations,   this  perpetual  jar 
Of  earthly  wants  and  aspirations  high, 

Come  from  the  influence  of  an  unseen  star, 
An  undiscovered  planet  in  our  sky. 

And   as    the    moon    from    some    dark    gate    of 
cloud 
Throws   o'er   the    sea   a    floating    bridge    of 
light, 
Across    whose    trembling     planks    our    fancies 
crowd 
Into  the  realm  of  mystery  and  night,  — 

So  from  the  world  of  spirits  there  descends 
A  bridge  of  light,   connecting  it  with  this, 

O'er    whose    unsteady    floor,    that    sways    and 
bends, 
Wander  our  thoughts  above   the  dark  abyss. 


IN   THE   CHURCHYARD   AT   CAM- 
BRIDGE. 

In  the  village  churchyard  she  lies, 
Dust  is  in  her  beautiful  eyes, 

No  more  she  breathes,  nor  feels,  nor  stirs; 
At  her  feet  and  at  her  head 
Lies  a  slave  to  attend  the  dead, 

But  their  dust  is  white  as  hers. 

Was  she  a  lady  of  high  degree, 
So  much  in  love  with  the  vanity 

And  foolish  pomp  of  this  world  of  ours? 
Or  was  it  Christian  charity, 
And  lowliness  and  humility, 

The  richest  and  rarest  of  all  dowers? 
133 


134      IN   THE  CHURCHYARD   AT  CAMBRIDGE. 

Who  shall  tell  us?     No  one  speaks; 
No  color  shoots  into  those  cheeks, 

Either  of  anger  or  of  pride, 
At  the  rude  question  we  have  asked; 
Nor  will  the  mystery  be  unmasked 

By  those  who  are  sleeping  at  her  side. 

Hereafter?  —  And  do  you  think  to  look 
On  the  terrible  pages  of  that  Book 

To  find  her  failings,   faults,  and  errors? 
Ah,  you  will  then  have  other  cares, 
In  your  own  short-comings  and  despairs, 

In  your  own  secret  sins  and  terrors! 


THE    EMPEROR'S    BIRD'S-NEST. 

Once  the  Emperor  Charles  of  Spain, 
With  his  swarthy,  grave  commanders, 

I  forget  in  what  campaign, 

Long  besieged,   in  mud  and  rain, 
Some  old  frontier  town  of  Flanders. 

Up  and  down  the  dreary  camp, 
In  great  boots  of  Spanish  leather, 

Striding  with  a  measured  tramp, 

These  Hidalgos,  dull  and  damp, 

Cursed  the  Frenchmen,  cursed   the  weather. 

Thus  as  to  and  fro  they  went, 

Over  upland  and  through  hollow, 
Giving  their  impatience  vent, 
135 


136  THE  EMPEROR'S  BIRD'S-NEST. 

Perched  upon  the  Emperor's  tent, 
In  her  nest,   they  spied  a  swallow. 

Yes,  it  was  a  swallow's  nest, 

Built  of  clay  and  hair  of  horses, 
Mane,  or  tail,  or  dragoon's  crest, 
Found  on  hedge-rows  east  and  west, 
After  skirmish  of  the  forces. 

Then  an  old  Hidalgo  said, 

As  he  twirled  his  gray  mustachio, 
"Sure  this  swallow  overhead 
Thinks  the  Emperor's  tent  a  shed, 
And  the  Emperor  but  a  Macho ! " 

Hearing  his  imperial  name 

Coupled  with  those  words  of  malice, 
Half  in  anger,  half  in  shame, 
Forth  the  great  campaigner  came 

Slowly  from  his  canvas  palace. 


THE  EMPEROR'S  BIRD' S-N EST.  131 

"Let  no  hand  the  bird  molest," 
Said  he  solemnly,   "nor  hurt  her!" 

Adding  then,   by  way  of  jest, 

"Golondrina  is  my  guest, 

'T  is  the  wife  of  some  deserter!" 

Swift  as  bowstring  speeds  a  shaft, 

Through  the  camp  was  spread  the  rumor, 

And  the  soldiers,  as  they  quaffed 

Flemish  beer  at  dinner,  laughed 
At  the  Emperor's  pleasant  humor. 

So  unharmed  and  unafraid 

Sat  the  swallow  still  and  brooded, 
Till  the  constant  cannonade 
Through  the  walls  a  breach  had  made, 
And  the  siege  was  thus  concluded. 

Then  the  army,  elsewhere  bent, 
Struck  its  tents  as  if  disbanding, 


138  THE  EMPEROR'S  BIRD' 'S-N EST. 

Only  not  the  Emperor's  tent, 
For  he  ordered,   ere  he  went, 

Very  curtly,   "Leave  it  standing!" 

So  it  stood  there  all  alone, 

Loosely  flapping,  torn  and  tattered, 
Till  the  brood  was  fledged  and  flown, 
Singing  o'er  those  walls  of  stone 

Which  the  cannon-shot  had  shattered. 


THE   TWO   ANGELS. 

Two  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of  Death, 
Passed     o'er    our    village    as    the    morning 
broke ; 
The  dawn  was  on  their  faces,  and  beneath, 
The  sombre   houses  hearsed  with  plumes  of 
smoke. 

Their  attitude  and  aspect  were  the  same, 
Alike  their  features  and  their  robes  of  white; 

But  one  was   crowned  with  amaranth,   as  with 
flame, 
And  one  with  asphodels,  like  flakes  of  light. 

I  saw  them  pause  on  their  celestial  way; 
Then  said  I,  with  deep  fear  and  doubt  op- 
pressed, 

139 


140  THE   TWO  ANGELS. 

"Beat  not  so  loud,  my  heart,  lest  thou  betray 
The  place  where  thy  beloved  are  at  rest!" 

And  he  who  wore  the  crown  of  asphodels, 
Descending,  at  my  door  began  to  knock, 

And  my  soul  sank  within  me,  as  in  wells 
The    waters     sink     before     an    earthquake's 
shock. 

I  recognized  the  nameless  agony, 

The  terror  and  the  tremor  and  the  pain, 

That  oft  before  had  filled  or  haunted  me, 
And   now   returned   with    threefold    strength 
again. 

The  door  I  opened  to  my  heavenly  guest, 
And   listened,  for   I   thought  I  heard  God's 
voice; 

And,  knowing  whatsoe'er  he  sent  was  best, 
Dared  neither  to  lament  nor  to  rejoice. 


THE   TWO  ANGELS.  141 

Then  with  a  smile,  that   filled   the  house  with 
light, 
"My    errand    is    not    Death,    but    Life,"  he 
said; 
And  ere  I  answered,  passing  out  of  sight, 
On  his  celestial  embassy  he  sped. 

'T  was    at    thy    door,  O   friend  !    and   not    at 
mine, 
The  angel  with  the  amaranthine  wreath, 
Pausing,  descended,  and  with  voice  divine, 
Whispered   a   word    that    had   a   sound    like 
Death. 

Then  fell  upon  the  house  a  sudden  gloom, 

A  shadow  on  those  features  fair  and  thin; 
And   softly,    from    that   hushed   and    darkened 
room, 
Two    angels    issued,    where    but    one    went 
in. 


142  THE   TWO  ANGELS. 

All  is  of  God !     If  he  but  wave  his  hand, 
The  mists  collect,   the  rain   falls   thick   and 
loud, 

Till,  with  a  smile  of  light  on  sea  and  land, 
Lo!  he  looks  back  from  the  departing  cloud. 

Angels  of  Life  and  Death  alike  are  his; 

Without    his    leave   they   pass   no    threshold 
o'er; 
Who,  then,  would  wish  or  dare,  believing  this, 

Against  his  messengers  to  shut  the  door? 


DAYLIGHT  AND   MOONLIGHT. 

In  broad  daylight,  and  at  noon, 
Yesterday  I  saw  the  moon 
Sailing  high,  but  faint  and  white, 
As  a  school-boy's  paper  kite. 

In  broad  daylight,  yesterday, 
I  read  a  Poet's  mystic  lay; 
And  it  seemed  to  me  at  most 
As  a  phantom,  or  a  ghost. 

But  at  length  the  feverish  day 
Like  a  passion  died  away, 
And  the  night,   serene  and  still, 
Fell  on  village,   vale,   and  hill. 
143 


144  DAYLIGHT  AND  MOONLIGHT. 

Then  the  moon,   in  all  her  pride, 
Like  a  spirit  glorified, 
Filled  and  overflowed  the  night 
With  revelations  of  her  light. 

And  the  Poet's  song  again 

Passed  like  music   through  my  brain; 

Night  interpreted  to  me 

All  its  grace  and  mystery, 


THE   JEWISH   CEMETERY   AT   NEW- 
PORT. 

How  strange  it  seems!  These  Hebrews  in 
their  graves, 

Close  by  the  street  of  this  fair  seaport  town, 
Silent  beside  the  never-silent  waves, 

At  rest  in  all  this  moving  up  and  down! 

The  trees  are  white  with   dust,  that  o'er  their 
sleep 
Wave    their    broad    curtains    in    the    south- 
wind's  breath, 
While  underneath  such  leafy  tents  they  keep 
The  long,  mysterious  Exodus  of  Death. 

And  these  sepulchral  stones,  so  old  and  brown, 
That  pave  with  level  flags  their  burial-place, 
145 


146       THE  JEWISH  CEMETERY  AT  NEWPORT. 

Seem    like    the    tablets    of    the    Law,    thrown 
down 
And  broken  by  Moses  at  the  mountain's  base. 

The  very  names  recorded  here  are  strange, 
Of  foreign  accent,  and  of  different  climes; 

Alvares  and  Rivera  interchange 

With  Abraham  and  Jacob  of  old  times. 

"Blessed  be  God!    for  he  created  Death!" 
The  mourners  said,  "and  Death  is  rest  and 
peace"; 
Then  added,   in  the  certainty  of  faith, 

"And    giveth    Life    that    never    more    shall 
cease." 

Closed  are  the  portals  of  their  Synagogue, 
No  Psalms  of  David  now  the  silence  break, 

No  Rabbi  reads  the  ancient  Decalogue 
In  the  grand  dialect  the  Prophets  spake. 


THE  JEWISH  CEMETERY  AT  NEWPORT.      147 

Gone  are  the  living,  but  the  dead  remain, 
And  not  neglected;    for  a  hand  unseen, 

Scattering  its  bounty,  like  a  summer  rain, 
Still    keeps   their   graves    and    their   remem- 
brance green. 

How  came   they  here?     What   burst   of   Chris- 
tian hate, 

What  persecution,  merciless  and  blind, 
Drove  o'er  the  sea  — that  desert  desolate  — 

These  Ishmaels  and  Hagars  of  mankind? 

They  lived  in  narrow  streets  and  lanes  obscure, 
Ghetto  and  Judenstrass,   in  mirk  and  mire; 

Taught  in  the  school  of  patience  to  endure 
The  life  of  anguish  and  the  death  of  fire. 

All    their    lives    long,    with     the     unleavened 
bread 
And  bitter  herbs  of  exile  and  its  fears, 


148       THE  JEWISH  CEMETERY  AT  NEWPORT. 

The  wasting  famine  of  the  heart  they  fed, 
And    slaked    its    thirst  with    marah    of    their 
tears. 

Anathema  maranatha!  was  the  cry 

That    rang    from    town   to   town,   from    street 
to  street; 
At  every  gate  the  accursed  Mordecai 

Was    mocked    and    jeered,    and    spurned    by 
Christian  feet. 

Pride  and  humiliation  hand  in  hand 

Walked     with      them      through      the      world 
where'er  they  went; 

Trampled  and  beaten  were  they  as  the  sand, 
And  yet  unshaken  as  the  continent. 

For     in     the    background    figures     vague     and 
vast 
Of  patriarchs  and  of   prophets  rose  sublime, 


THE  JEWISH  CEMETERY  AT  NEWPORT      149 

And  all  the  great  traditions  of  the  Past 
They  saw  reflected  in  the  coming  time. 

And  thus  for  ever  with  reverted  look 

The  mystic  volume  of  the  world  they  read, 

Spelling  it  backward,  like  a  Hebrew  book, 
Till  life  became  a  Legend  of  the  Dead. 

But  ah !  what  once  has  been  shall  be  no  more ! 

The  groaning  earth  in  travail  and  in  pain 
Brings  forth  its  races,  but  does  not  restore, 

And  the  dead  nations  never  rise  again. 


OLIVER   BASSELIN. 

In  the  Valley  of  the  Vire 

Still  is  seen  an  ancient  mill, 

With  its  gables  quaint  and  queer, 

And  beneath  the  window-sill, 

On  the  stone, 

These  words  alone : 

"Oliver  Basselin  lived  here." 

Far  above  it,   on  the  steep, 

Ruined  stands  the  old  Chateau; 
Nothing  but  the  donjon-keep 
Left  for  shelter  or  for  show. 
Its  vacant  eyes 
Stare  at  the  skies, 
Stare  at  the  valley  green  and  deepc 
150 


OLIVER  BASSE  LIN.  151 

Once  a  convent,  old  and  brown, 

Looked,  but  ah !   it  looks  no  more, 
From  the  neighboring  hillside   down 
On  the  rushing  and  the  roar 
Of  the  stream 
Whose  sunny  gleam 
Cheers  the  little  Norman  town. 

In  that  darksome  mill  of  stone, 
To  the  water's  dash  and  din, 
Careless,  humble,  and  unknown, 
Sang  the  poet  Basselin 
Songs  that  fill 
That  ancient  mill 
With  a  splendor  of  its  own. 

Never  feeling  of  unrest 

Broke  the  pleasant  dream  he  dreamed; 
Only  made  to  be  his  nest, 

All  the  lovely  valley  seemed; 


152  OLIVER  BASSELIN. 

No  desire 
Of  soaring  higher 
Stirred  or  fluttered  in  his  breast. 


True,  his  songs  were  not  divine; 

Were  not  songs  of  that  high  art, 
Which,  as  winds  do  in  the  pine, 
Find  an  answer  in  each  heart; 
But  the  mirth 
Of  this  green  earth 
Laughed  and  revelled  in  his  line. 

From  the  alehouse  and  the  inn, 
Opening  on  the  narrow  street, 
Came  the  loud,   convivial  din, 
Singing  and  applause  of  feet, 
The  laughing  lays 
That  in  those  days 
Sang  the  poet  Basselin. 


OLIVER  BASSELIN.  153 

In  the  castle,  cased  in  steel, 

Knights,   who  fought  at  Agincourt, 
Watched  and  waited,  spur  on  heel; 
But  the  poet  sang  for  sport 
Songs  that  rang 
Another  clang, 
Songs  that  lowlier  hearts  could  feel. 

In  the  convent,  clad  in  gray, 

Sat  the  monks  in  lonely  cells, 
Paced  the  cloisters,  knelt  to  pray, 
And  the  poet  heard  their  bells; 
But  his  rhymes 
Found  other  chimes, 
Nearer  to  the  earth  than  they. 

Gone  are  all  the  barons  bold, 

Gone  are  all  the  knights  and  squires, 

Gone  the  abbot  stern  and  cold, 
And  the  brotherhood  of  friars; 


154  OLIVER  BASSELIN. 

Not  a  name 
Remains  to  fame, 
From  those  mouldering  days  of  old! 

But  the  poet's  memory  here 

Of  the  landscape  makes  a  part; 
Like  the  river,  swift  and  clear, 

Flows  his  song  through  many  a  heart; 
Haunting  still 
That  ancient  mill, 
Iu  the  Valley  of  the  Vire. 


VICTOR   GALBRAITH. 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey 

At  daybreak  the  bugles  began  to  play, 

Victor  Galbraith! 
In  the  mist  of  the  morning  damp  and  gray, 
These  were  the  words  they  seemed  to  say: 

"Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith ! » 

Forth  he  came,  with  a  martial  tread; 
Firm  was  his  step,  erect  his  head; 

Victor  Galbraith, 
He  who  so  well  the  bugle  played, 
Could  not  mistake  the  words  it  said: 

"Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith!" 
155 


156  VICTOR   GALBRAITH. 

He  looked  at  the  earth,  he  looked  at  the  sky, 
He  looked  at  the  files  of  musketry, 

Victor   Galbraith! 
And  he  said,  with  a  steady  voice  and  eye, 
"Take  good  aim;  I  am  ready  to  die!" 

Thus  challenges  death 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Twelve  fiery  tongues  flashed  straight  and   red, 
Six  leaden  balls  on  their  errand  sped; 

Victor  Galbraith 
Falls  to  the  ground,  but  he  is  not  dead; 
His  name  was  not  stamped  on  those  balls   of 
lead, 

And  they  only  scath 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Three  balls  are  in  his  breast  and  brain, 
But  he  rises  out  of  the  dust  again, 
Victor   Galbraith! 


VICTOR   GALBRAITH.  157 

The  water  he  drinks  has  a  bloody  stain; 
"O  kill  me,   and  put  me  out  of  my  pain!" 

In  his  agony  prayeth 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Forth  dart  once  more  those  tongues  of  flame, 
And  the  bugler  has  died  a  death  of  shame, 

Victor  Galbraith! 
His  soul  has  gone  back  to  whence  it  came, 
And  no  one  answers  to  the  name, 

When  the  Sergeant  saith, 

"Victor  Galbraith!" 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey 

By  night  a  bugle  is  heard  to  play, 

Victor  Galbraith! 
Through  the  mist  of  the  valley  damp  and  gray 
The  sentinels  hear  the  sound,  and  say, 

"That  is  the  wraith 

Of  Victor  Galbraith!" 


MY   LOST   YOUTH. 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 
And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,   in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 

Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 
158 


MY  LOST    YOUTH.  159 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill; 
The  sun-rise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar, 


160  MY  LOST    YOUTH. 

The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs   in  my  memory  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 
How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide! 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,   o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay, 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods; 


MY  LOST   YOUTH.  161 

And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 
In  quiet  neighborhoods. 
And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

I    remember     the    gleams    and     glooms     that 
dart 
Across  the  schoolboy's  brain; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 


162  MY  LOST   YOUTH. 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong  heart 

weak, 
And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well-known 
street, 
As  they  balance  up  and  down,     ; 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still: 


MY  LOST    YOUTH.  1^3 

"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 
And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 


THE   ROPEWALK. 

In  that  building,   long  and  low, 
With  its  windows  all  a-row, 

Like  the  port-holes  of  a  hulk, 
Human  spiders  spin  and   spin, 
Backward  down  their  threads  so  thin 

Dropping,  each  a  hempen  bulk. 

At  the  end,  an  open  door; 
Squares  of  sunshine  on  the  floor 

Light  the  long  and  dusky  lane; 
And  the  whirring  of  a  wheel, 
Dull  and  drowsy,  makes  me  feel 

All  its  spokes  are  in  my  brain. 

As  the  spinners  to  the  end 
Downward  go  and  reascend, 

Gleam  the  long  threads  in  the  sun; 
164 


THE  ROPE  WALK.  165 

While  within  this  brain  of  mine 

Cobwebs  brighter  and  more  fine 

By  the  busy  wheel  are  spun. 

Two  fair  maidens  in  a  swing, 
Like  white  doves  upon  the  wing, 

First  before  my  vision  pass; 
Laughing,  as  their  gentle  hands 
Closely  clasp  the  twisted  strands, 

At  their  shadow  on  the  grass. 

Then  a  booth  of  mountebanks, 
With  its  smell  of  tan  and  planks, 

And  a  girl  poised  high  in  air 
On  a  cord,  in  spangled  dress, 
With  a  faded  loveliness, 

And  a  weary  look  of  care. 

Then  a  homestead  among  farms, 
And  a  woman  with  bare  arms 
Drawing  water  from  a  well; 


166  THE  ROPEIVALK. 

As  the  bucket  mounts  apace, 
With  it  mounts  her  own  fair  face, 
As  at  some  magician's  spell. 

Then  an  old  man  in  a  tower, 
Ringing  loud  the  noontide  hour, 

While  the  rope  coils  round  and  round 
Like  a  serpent  at  his  feet, 
And  again,   in  swift  retreat, 

Nearly  lifts  him  from  the  ground. 

Then  within  a  prison-yard, 
Faces  fixed,  and  stern,  and  hard, 

Laughter  and  indecent  mirth; 
Ah !  it  is  the  gallows-tree ! 
Breath  of  Christian  charity, 

Blow,  and  sweep  it  from  the  earth! 

Then  a  school-boy,  with  his  kite 
Gleaming  in  a  sky  of  light, 
And  an  eager,  upward  look; 


THE  ROPEWALK.  167 

Steeds  pursued  through  lane  and  field; 
Fowlers  with  their  snares  concealed; 
And  an  angler  by  a  brook. 

Ships  rejoicing  in  the  breeze, 
Wrecks  that  float  o'er  unknown  seas, 

Anchors  dragged  through  faithless  sand; 
Sea-fog  drifting  overhead, 
And,  with  lessening  line  and  lead, 

Sailors  feeling  for  the  land. 

All  these  scenes  do  I  behold, 
These,  and  many  left  untold, 

In  that  building  long  and  low; 
While  the  wheel  goes  round  and  round, 
With  a  drowsy,   dreamy  sound, 

And  the  spinners  backward  go. 


THE   GOLDEN    MILE-STONE. 

Leafless  are  the  trees;  their  purple  branches 
Spread  themselves  abroad,  like  reefs  of  coral, 

Rising  silent 
In  the  Red  Sea  of  the  Winter  sunset. 

From  the  hundred  chimneys  of  the  village, 
Like  the  Afreet  in  the  Arabian  story, 

Smoky  columns 
Tower  aloft  into  the  air  of  amber. 

At  the  window  winks  the  flickering  fire-light; 
Here  and  there  the  lamps  of  evening  glimmer, 

Social  watch-fires 
Answering  one  another  through  the  darkness. 
168 


THE   GOLDEN  MILE-STONE.  169 

On  the  hearth  the  lighted  logs  are  glowing, 
And  like  Ariel  in  the  cloven  pine-tree 

For  its  freedom 
Groans  and  sighs  the  air  imprisoned  in  them. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  old  men  seated, 
Seeing  ruined  cities  in  the  ashes, 

Asking  sadly 
Of  the  Past  what  it  can  ne'er  restore  them. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  youthful  dreamers, 
Building  castles  fair,  with  stately  stairways, 

Asking  blindly 
Of  the  Future  what  it  cannot  give  them. 

By  the  fireside  tragedies  are  acted 

In  whose  scenes  appear  two  actors  only, 

Wife  and  husband, 
And  above  them  God  the  sole  spectator. 


170  THE   GOLDEN  MILE-STONE. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  peace  and  comfort, 
Wives  and  children,  with  fair,  thoughtful  faces, 

Waiting,  watching 
For  a  well-known  footstep  in  the  passage. 

Each  man's  chimney  is  his  Golden  Mile-stone; 
Is  the  central  point,  from  which  he  measures 

Every  distance 
Through  the  gateways  of  the  world  around  him. 

In  his  farthest  wanderings  still  he  sees  it  ; 
Hears  the  talking  flame,  the  answering   night- 
wind, 
As  he  heard  them 
When  he  sat  with  those  who  were,  but  are  not. 

Happy  he  whom  neither  wealth  nor  fashion, 
Nor  the  march  of  the  encroaching  city, 

Drives  an  exile 
From  the  hearth  of  his  ancestral  homestead. 


THE  GOLDEN  MILE-STONE.  171 

We  may  build  more  splendid   habitations, 
Fill  our  rooms  with  paintings  and  with  sculp- 
tures, 
But  we  cannot 
Buy  with  gold  the  old  associations! 


CATAWBA   WINE. 

This  song  of  mine 

Is  a  Song  of  the  Vine, 

To  be  sung  by  the  glowing  embers 
Of  wayside  inns, 
When  the  rain  begins 

To  darken  the  drear  Novembers. 

It  is  not  a  song 

Of  the  Scuppernong, 
From  warm  Carolinian  valleys, 

Nor  the  Isabel 

And  the  Muscadel 
That  bask  in  our  garden  alleys. 

Nor  the  red  Mustang, 
Whose  clusters  hang 
O'er  the  waves  of  the  Colorado, 
172 


CATAWBA  WINE.  173 

And  the  fiery  flood 
Of  whose  purple  blood 
Has  a  dash  of  Spanish  bravado. 

For  richest  and  best 

Is  the  wine  of  the  West, 
That  grows  by  the  Beautiful  River; 

Whose  sweet  perfume 

Fills  all  the  room 
With  a  benison  on  the  giver. 

And  as  hollow  trees 

Are  the  haunts  of   bees, 
For  ever  going  and  coming; 

So  this  crystal  hive 

Is  all  alive 
With  a  swarming  and  buzzing  and  humming. 

Very  good  in  its  way 
Is  the  Verzenay, 
Or  the  Sillery  soft  and  creamy; 


174  CATAWBA   WINE. 

But  Catawba  wine 
Has  a  taste  more  divine, 
More  dulcet,  delicious,  and  dreamy. 

There  grows  no  vine 

By  the  haunted  Rhine, 
By  Danube  or  Guadalquivir, 

Nor  on  island  or  cape, 

That  bears  such  a  grape 
As  grows  by  the  Beautiful  River. 

Drugged  is  their  juice 

For  foreign  use, 
When  shipped  o'er  the  reeling  Atlantic, 

To  rack  our  brains 

With  the  fever  pains, 
That  have  driven  the  Old  World  frantic. 

To  the  sewers  and  sinks 
With  all  such  drinks, 
And  after  them  tumble  the  mixer; 


CATAWBA   WINE  175 

For  a  poison  malign 
Is  such  Borgia  wine, 
Or  at  best  but  a  Devil's  Elixir. 

While  pure  as  a  spring 

Is  the  wine  I   sing, 
And  to  praise  it,  one  needs  but  name  it; 

For  Catawba  wine 

Has  need  of  no  sign, 
No  tavern-bush  to  proclaim  it. 

And  this  Song  of  the  Vine, 

This  greeting  of  mine, 
The  winds  and  the  birds  shall  deliver 

To  the  Queen  of  the  West, 

In  her  garlands  dressed, 
On  the  banks  of  the  Beautiful  River. 


SANTA    FILOMENA. 

Whene'er  a  noble  deed  is  wrought, 
Whene'er  is  spoken  a  noble  thought 

Our  hearts,   in  glad  surprise, 

To  higher  levels  rise. 

The  tidal  wave  of  deeper  souls 

Into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 
And  lifts  us  unawares 
Out  of  all  meaner  cares. 

Honor  to  those  whose  words  or  deeds 
Thus  help  us  in  our  daily  needs, 
And  by  their  overflow 
Raise  us  from' what  is  low) 
176 


SANTA  FILOMENA.  177 

Thus  thought  I,   as  by  night  I  read 

Of  the  great  army  of  the  dead, 
The  trenches  cold  and  damp, 
The  starved  and  frozen  camp,  — 

The  wounded  from  the  battle-plain, 
In  dreary  hospitals  of  pain, 

The  cheerless  corridors, 

The  cold  and  stony  floors. 

Lo!  in  that  house  of   misery 

A  lady  with  a  lamp  I  see 

Pass  through  the  glimmering  gloom, 
And  flit  from  room  to  room. 

And  slow,  as  in  a  dream  of  bliss, 
The  speechless  sufferer  turns  to  kiss 

Her  shadow,  as  it  falls 

Upon  the  darkening  walls. 


178  SANTA  FILOMENA. 

As  if  a  door  in  heaven  should  be 
Opened  and  then  closed  suddenly, 
The  vision  came  and  went, 
The  light  shone  and  was  spent. 

On  England's  annals,   through  the  long 
Hereafter  of  her  speech  and  song, 
That  light  its  rays  shall  cast 
From  portals  of  the  past. 

A  Lady  with  a  Lamp  shall  stand 
In  the  great  history  of   the   land, 

A  noble  type  of  good, 

Heroic  womanhood. 

Nor  even  shall  be  wanting  here 
The  palm,   the  lily,  and  the  spear, 

The  symbols  that  of  yore 

Saint  Filomena  bore. 


THE   DISCOVERER   OF   THE    NORTH 
CAPE. 

A   LEAF   FROM    KING    ALFRED'S    OROSIUS. 

Othere,  the  old  sea-captain, 

Who  dwelt  in  Helgoland, 
To  King  Alfred,   the  Lover  of  Truth, 
Brought  a  snow-white  walrus-tooth, 

Which  he  held  in  his  brown  right  hand. 

His  figure  was  tall  and  stately, 
Like  a  boy's  his  eye  appeared; 

His  hair  was  yellow  as  hay, 

But  threads  of  a  silvery  gray 
Gleamed  in  his  tawny  beard. 

Hearty  and  hale  was  Othere, 

His  cheek  had  the  color  of  oak; 
179 


180      THE  DISCOVERER  OF  THE  NORTH  CAPE. 

With  a  kind  of  laugh  in  his  speech, 
Like  the  sea-tide  on  a  beach, 
As  unto  the  King  he  spoke. 

And  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons, 

Had  a  book  upon  his  knees, 
And  wrote  down  the  wondrous  tale 
Of  him  who  was  first  to  sail 

Into  the  Arctic  seas. 

"So  far  I  live  to  the  northward, 

No  man  lives  north  of  me; 
To  the  east  are  wild  mountain-chains, 
And  beyond  them  meres  and  plains; 

To  the  westward  all  is  sea. 

"So  far  I  live  to  the  northward, 
From  the  harbor  of  Skeringes-hale, 

If  you  only  sailed  by  day, 

With  a  fair  wind  all  the  way, 

More  than  a  month  would  you  sail. 


THE  DISCOVERER  OF  THE  NORTH  CAPE.     181 

"I  own  six  hundred  reindeer, 

With  sheep  and  swine  beside; 
I  have  tribute  from  the  Finns, 
Whalebone  and  reindeer-skins, 

And  ropes  of  walrus-hide. 

"I  ploughed  the  land  with  horses, 

But  my  heart  was  ill  at  ease, 
For  the  old  seafaring  men 
Came  to  me  now  and  then, 

With  their  sagas  of  the  seas;  — 

"Of  Iceland  and  of  Greenland, 

And  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
And  the  undiscovered  deep;  — 
I  could  not  eat  nor  sleep 

For  thinking  of  those  seas. 

"To  the  northward  stretched  the  desert, 
How  far  I  fain  would  know; 


182      THE  DISCOVERER  OF  THE  NORTH  CAPE. 

So  at  last  I  sallied  forth, 
And  three  days  sailed  due  north, 
As  far  as  the  whale-ships  go. 

"To  the  west  of  me  was  the  ocean, 

To  the  right  the  desolate  shore, 
But  I  did  not  slacken  sail 
For  the  walrus  or  the  whale, 
Till  after  three  days  more. 

"The  days  grew  longer  and  longer, 

Till  they  became  as  one, 
And  southward  through  the  haze 
I  saw  the  sullen  blaze 

Of  the  red  midnight  sun. 

"And  then  uprose  before  me, 

Upon  the  water's  edge, 
The  huge  and  haggard  shape 
Of  that  unknown  North  Cape, 

Whose  form  is  like  a  wedge. 


THE  DISCOVERER  OF  THE  NORTH  CAPE.     183 

"The  sea  was  rough  and  stormy, 
The  tempest  howled  and  wailed, 

And  the  sea-fog,   like  a  ghost, 

Haunted  that  dreary  coast, 
But  onward  still  I  sailed. 

"Four  days  I  steered  to  eastward. 

Four  days  without  a  night: 
Round  in  a  fiery  ring 
Went  the  great  sun,   O  King, 

With  red  and  lurid  light." 

Here  Alfred,   King  of  the  Saxons, 

Ceased  writing  for  a  while; 
And  raised  his  eyes  from  his  book, 
With  a  strange  and  puzzled  look, 
And  an  incredulous  smile. 

But  Othere,  the  old  sea-captain, 
He  neither  paused  nor  stirred, 


184      THE  DISCOVERER  OF  THE  NORTH  CAPE. 

Till  the  King  listened,  and  then 
Once  more  took  up  his  pen, 
And  wrote  down  every  word. 

"And  now  the   land,"  said   Othere, 
"Bent  southward  suddenly, 

And  I  followed  the  curving  shore 

And  ever  southward  bore 
Into  a  nameless  sea. 

"And  there  we  hunted  the  walrus, 
The  narvvhale,  and  the  seal; 

Ha!  'twas  a  noble  game! 

And  like  the  lightning's  flame 
Flew  our  harpoons  of  steel. 

"There  were  six  of  us  all  together, 

Norsemen  of  Helgoland; 
In  two  days  and  no  more 
We  killed  of  them  threescore, 

And  dragged  them  to  the  strand ! " 


THE  DISCOVERER  OF  THE  NORTH  CAPE.     185 

Here  Alfred  the  Truth-Teller 

Suddenly  closed  his  book, 
And  lifted  his  blue  eyes, 
With  doubt  and  strange  surmise 

Depicted  in  their  look. 

And  Othere  the  old  sea-captain 

Stared  at  him  wild  and  weird, 
Then  smiled,   till  his  shining  teeth 
Gleamed  white  from  underneath 
His  tawny,   quivering   beard. 

And  to  the  King  of  the  Saxons, 

In  witness  of  the  truth, 
Raising  his  noble  head, 
He  stretched  his  brown  hand,   and  said, 

"Behold  this  walrus-tooth!" 


DAYBREAK. 

A  wind  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 

And  said,  "0  mists,  make  room  for  me.' 

It  hailed  the  ships,   and  cried,   "Sail  on, 
Ye  mariners,   the  night  is  gone." 

And  hurried  landward  far  away, 
Crying,   "Awake!  it  is  the  day." 

It  said  unto  the  forest,   "Shout! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out ! " 

It  touched  the  wood-bird's  folded  wing, 
And  said,   "O  bird,  awake  and  sing." 

And  o'er  the  farms,   "O  chanticleer, 
Your  clarion  blow;  the  day  is  near." 
186 


DAYBREAK.  187 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 

"Bow  down,   and  hail  the  coming  morn." 

It  shouted  through  the  belfry-tower, 
"Awake,   O  bell!    proclaim  the  hour." 

It  crossed  the  churchyard  with  a  sigh, 
And  said,   "Not  yet  !  in  quiet  lie." 


THE  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  AGASSIZ. 

May  28,  1857. 

It  was  fifty  years  ago 

In  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 
In  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud, 

A  child  in  its  cradle  lay. 

And  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

The  child  upon  her  knee, 
Saying:  "Here  is  a  story-book 

Thy  Father  has  written  for  thee. 

"Come,  wander  with  me,"  she  said, 

"Into  regions  yet  untrod; 
And  read  what  is  still  unread 

In  the  manuscripts  of  God." 
188 


THE  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  AGASSIZ.     189 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away 
With  Nature,   the  dear  old  nurse, 

Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe. 


And  whenever  the  way  seemed  long, 

Or  his  heart  began  to  fail, 
She  would  sing  a  more  wonderful  song, 

Or  tell  a  more  marvellous  tale. 

So  she  keeps  him  still  a  child, 

And  will  not  let  him  go, 
Though  at  times  his  heart  beats  wild 

For  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud; 

Though  at  times  he  hears  in  his  dreams 
The  Ranz  des  Vaches  of  old, 

And  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 
From  glaciers  clear  and  cold; 


190      THE  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  AGASSIZ. 

And  the  mother  at  home  says,   "Hark! 

For  his  voice  I  listen  and  yearn; 
It  is  growing  late  and  dark, 

And  my  boy  does  not  return ! " 


CHILDREN. 

Come  to  me,   0  ye  children! 

For  I  hear  you  at  your  play, 
And  the  questions  that  perplexed  me 

Have  vanished  quite  away. 

Ye  open  the  eastern  windows, 

That  look  towards  the  sun, 
Where  thoughts  are  singing  swallows 

And  the  brooks  of  morning  run. 

In  your  hearts  are  the  birds  and  the  sunshine, 
In  your  thoughts  the  brooklet's  flow, 

But  in  mine  is  the  wind  of  Autumn 
And  the  first  fall  of  the   snow. 
191 


192  CHILDREN. 

Ah!  what  would  the  world  be  to  us 
If  the  children  were  no  more? 

We  should  dread  the  desert  behind  us 
Worse  than  the  dark  before. 

What  the  leaves  are  to  the  forest, 

With  light  and  air  for  food, 
Ere  their  sweet  and  tender  juices 

Have  been  hardened  into  wood,  — 

That  to  the  world  are  children; 

Through  them  it  feels  the  glow 
Of  a  brighter  and  sunnier  climate 

Than  reaches  the  trunks  below. 

Come  to  me,  O  ye  children! 

And  whisper  in  my  ear 
What  the  birds  and  the  winds  are  singing 

In  your  sunny  atmosphere. 


CHILDREN.  193 

For  what  are  all  our  contrivings, 
And  the  wisdom  of  our  books, 

When  compared  with  your  caresses, 
And  the  gladness  of  your  looks? 

Ye  are  better  than  all  the  ballads 

That  ever  were  sung  or  said; 
For  ye  are  living  poems, 

And  all  the  rest  are  dead. 


SANDALPHON. 

Have  you  read  in  the  Talmud  of  old, 
In  the  Legends  the  Rabbins  have  told 

Of  the  limitless  realms  of  the  air,  — 
Have  you  read  it,  —  the  marvellous  story 
Of  Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Glory, 

Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Prayer? 

How,  erect,  at  the  outermost  gates 
Of  the  City  Celestial  he  waits, 

With  his  feet  on  the  ladder  of  light, 
That,  crowded  with  angels  unnumbered, 
By  Jacob  was  seen,  as  he  slumbered 

Alone  in  the  desert  at  night? 
194 


SANDALPHON.  195 

The  Angels  of  Wind  and  of  Fire 
Chaunt  only  one  hymn,  and  expire 

With  the  song's  irresistible  stress; 
Expire  in  their  rapture  and  wonder, 
As  harp-strings  are  broken  asunder 

By  music  they  throb  to  express. 

But  serene  in  the  rapturous  throng, 
Unmoved  by  the  rush  of  the  song, 

With  eyes  unimpassioned  and  slow, 
Among  the  dead  angels,  the  deathless 
Sandalphon  stands  listening  breathless 

To  sounds  that  ascend  from  below;  — 

From  the  spirits  on  earth  that  adore, 
From  the  souls  that  entreat  and  implore 

In  the  fervor  and  passion  of  prayer; 
From  the  hearts  that  are  broken  with  losses, 
And  weary  with  dragging  the  crosses 

Too  heavy  for  mortals  to  bear. 


196  SANDALPHON. 

And  he  gathers  the  prayers  as  he  stands, 
And  they  change  into  flowers  in  his  hands, 

Into  garlands  of  purple  and  red; 
And  beneath  the  great  arch  of  the  portal, 
Through  the  streets  of  the  City  Immortal 

Is  wafted  the  fragrance  they  shed. 

It  is  but  a  legend,   I  know,  — 
A  fable,  a  phantom,   a  show, 

Of  the  ancient  Rabbinical  lore; 
Yet  the  old  mediaeval  tradition, 
The  beautiful,   strange  superstition, 

But  haunts  me  and  holds  me  the  more. 

When  I  look  from  my  window  at  night, 
And  the  welkin  above  is  all  white, 

All  throbbing  and  panting  with  stars, 
Among  them  majestic  is  standing 
Sandalphon  the  angel,  expanding 

His  pinions  in  nebulous  bars. 


SANDALPHON.  197 

And  the  legend,   I  feel,   is  a  part 

Of  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  heart, 

The  frenzy  and  fire  of  the  brain, 
That  grasps  at  the  fruitage  forbidden, 
The  golden  pomegranates  of  Eden, 

To  quiet  its  fever  and  pain. 


EPIMETHEUS, 

OR  THE   POET'S   AFTERTHOUGHT. 

Have  I  dreamed?  or  was  it  real, 

What  I  saw  as  in  a  vision, 
When  to  marches  hymeneal 
In  the  land  of  the  Ideal 

Moved  my  thought  o'er  Fields  Elysian? 

What!  are  these  the  guests  whose  glances 
Seemed  like  sunshine  gleaming  round  me? 

These  the  wild,  bewildering  fancies, 

That  with  dithyrambic  dances 
As  with  magic  circles  bound  me? 

Ah!  how  cold  are  their  caresses! 
Pallid  cheeks,  and  haggard  bosoms! 
198 


EPIMETHEUS.  199 

Spectral  gleam  their  snow-white  dresses, 
And  from  loose,  dishevelled  tresses 
Fall  the  hyacinthine  blossoms! 

O  my  songs!  whose  winsome  measures 
Filled  my  heart  with  secret  rapture! 

Children  of  my  golden  leisures! 

Must  even  your  delights  and  pleasures 
Fade  and  perish  with  the  capture? 

Fair  they  seemed,  those  songs  sonorous 

When  they  came  to  me  unbidden; 
Voices  single,  and  in  chorus, 
Like  the  wild  birds  singing  o'er  us 
In  the  dark  of  branches  hidden. 

Disenchantment !     Disillusion ! 

Must  each  noble  aspiration 
Come  at  last  to  this  conclusion, 
Jarring  discord,  wild  confusion, 

Lassitude,  renunciation? 


200  EPIMETHEUS. 

Not  with  steeper  fall  nor  faster, 
From  the  sun's  serene  dominions, 

Not  through  brighter  realms  nor  vaster, 

In  swift  ruin  and  disaster, 

Icarus  fell  with  shattered  pinions! 

Sweet  Pandora!    dear  Pandora! 

Why  did  mighty  Jove  create  thee 
Coy  as  Thetis,  fair  as  Flora, 
Beautiful  as  young  Aurora, 

If  to  win  thee  is  to  hate  thee? 

No,  not  hate  thee!    for  this  feeling 

Of  unrest  and  long  resistance 
Is  but  passionate  appealing, 
A  prophetic  whisper  stealing 

O'er  the  chords  of  our  existence. 

Him  whom  thou  dost  once  enamour, 
Thou,  beloved,  never  leavest; 


EPIMETHEUS.  201 

In  life's  discord,   strife,  and  clamor, 
Still  he  feels  thy  spell  of  glamour; 
Him  of  Hope  thou  ne'er  bereavest. 

Weary  hearts  by  thee  are  lifted, 

Struggling  souls  by  thee  are  strengthened, 
Clouds  of  fear  asunder  rifted, 
Truth  from  falsehood  cleansed  and  sifted, 

Lives,  like  days  in  summer,  lengthened! 

Therefore  art  thou  ever  dearer, 

O  my  Sibyl,  my  deceiver! 
For  thou  makest  each  mystery  clearer, 
And  the  unattained  seems  nearer, 

When  thou  fillest  my  heart  with  fever! 

Muse  of  all  the  Gifts  and  Graces! 

Though  the  fields  around  us  wither, 
There  are  ampler  realms  and  spaces, 
Where  no  foot  has  left  its  traces: 

Let  us  turn  and  wander  thither! 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 

Page  119.      That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 

A  ladder. 
The  words  of  St.  Augustine  are, "  De  Vitiis  nostris  scalam 
nobis  facimus,  si  vitia  ipsa  calcamus." 

Sermon  III.  De  Ascensione. 

Page  122.    The  Phantom  Ship. 

A  detailed  account  of  this  "  Apparition  of  a  Ship  in  the 
Air  "  is  given  by  Cotton  Mather  in  his  Magnalia  Christi, 
Book  I.  Ch.  VI.  It  is  contained  in  a  letter  from  the  Rev. 
James  Pierpont,  Pastor  of  New  Haven.  To  this  account 
Mather  adds  these  words :  — 

"  Reader,  there  being  yet  living  so  many  credible  gen- 
tlemen, that  were  eyewitnesses  of  this  wonderful  thing,  I 
venture  to  publish  it  for  a  thing  as  undoubted  as  't  is 
wonderful." 

Page  136.     And  the  Emperor  but  a  Macho. 
Macho,  in  Spanish,  signifies  a  mule.     Golondrina  is  the 
feminine  form  of  Golondrino,  a  swallow,  and  also  a  cant 
name  for  a  deserter. 

Page  150.    Oliver  Basselin. 

Oliver  Basselin,  the  "Fere  joyeux  du  Vaudeville" 
flourished  in  the  fifteenth  century,  and  gave  to  his  conviv- 
ial songs  the  name  of  his  native  valleys,  in  which  he  sang 
them,  Vaux-de-Vire.  This  name  was  afterwards  corrupted 
into  the  modern  Vaudeville. 

205 


206  NOTES. 

Page  155.     Victor  Galbraith. 

This  poem  is  founded  on  fact.  Victor  Galbraith  was  a 
bugler  in  a  company  of  volunteer  cavalry;  and  was  shot 
in  Mexico  for  some  breach  of  discipline.  It  is  a  common 
superstition  among  soldiers,  that  no  balls  will  kill  them 
unless  their  names  are  written  on  them.  The  old  proverb 
says,  "  Every  bullet  has  its  billet." 

Page  160.     I  remember  the  sea-Jight  far  away. 

This  was  the  engagement  between  the  Enterprise  and 
Boxer,  off  the  harbor  of  Portland,  in  which  both  captains 
were  slain.  They  were  buried  side  by  side,  in  the  ceme- 
tery on  Mountjoy. 

Page  176.     Santa  Filomena. 

"  At  Pisa  the  church  of  San  Francisco  contains  a  chapel 
dedicated  lately  to  Santa  Filomena  ;  over  the  altar  is  a 
picture,  by  Sabatelli,  representing  the  Saint  as  a  beautiful, 
nymph-like  figure,  floating  down  from  heaven,  attended  by 
two  angels  bearing  the  lily,  palm,  and  javelin,  and  beneath, 
in  the  foreground,  the  sick  and  maimed,  who  are  healed  by 
her  intercession."  —  Mrs.  Jameson,  Sacred  and  Legendary 
Art,  II.  298. 


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